


Feainnewedd

by thelastwish



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adaptation, Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mystery, Post Season 1, Post Sodden Hill, Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastwish/pseuds/thelastwish
Summary: Geralt and Ciri try to escape the war but first they will have to face some unexpected reunions and dramatic news.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 54
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, I would love to read your thoughts about it.
> 
> My view of a possible start of Season 2 of The Witcher.

“Ciri… Ciri.”

Ciri woke up suddenly. She felt a throbbing pressure in her temples. When she touched her face, she realized she was drenched in sweat.

“Are you all right?”

She saw a strange look in the face of the witcher sitting in front of her. She suddenly felt her breath accelerating again, the dread in her stomach, the urge to check her surroundings. Feelings that had been her constant companion during her days on the run. Until they found each other. Geralt had been a calming presence since he had wrapped his arms around her in Yurga’s farm two days earlier. She had not felt this safe since the fall of Cintra. But the nightmares had not stopped and now, for the first time, Geralt looked worried.

“I saw him again,” she said.

“The wings? And nothing else?”

“I... I don’t remember.”

The witcher stopped frowning and Ciri saw a faint smile returning to his face. Everything was all right.

“Don’t worry. Get back to sleep, we have some time before dawn.”

Ciri nodded and turned on her side. Geralt tucked her in the fur and sat next to her.

 _Yennefer._ Ciri had called her in dreams. She had told him that she had heard the name in another dream just before finding each other. Geralt knew there were mages who claimed to be able to see past or future events using dreams. He could still remember Yennefer’s resonant voice savouring every syllable as she illuminated him about the magic art: _oneiromancy_. It couldn’t be ruled out that magic was in play and Ciri had inherited the poisoned gift of her mother Pavetta and the other Sources in her family.

He was also thinking about the news Yurga had told him before leaving. There had been a great, bloody battle in Sodden Hill. The Nilfgaardians had withdrawn from the area and Geralt realized they had to cross the Yaruga as soon as possible, before reinforcements arrived to launch another assault on the Elven keep or secure the border. But that was not the only reason he had decided to go to the ruined fort. Yurga had heard that the battle was saved by a group of northern mages. Lots of them fell but they prevented Nilfgaard from securing the crossing before the northern armies arrived and routed the black invasion force.

Yurga had not told him any names but he could not avoid worrying about Yennefer. He knew the sorceress and the Brotherhood were in bad terms, to put it mildly. She had always avoided politics when they were together, and he could not imagine the proud, fiercely independent sorceress getting involved with them in a war. But the thought would not leave his mind.

* * *

Geralt looked at the pennants fluttering in the tower before them. The black unicorn of Kaedwen was dancing among the silver lilies of Temeria and the witcher wondered if the two armies sharing the keep would get along as well as their emblems. He was in a better mood that afternoon, the worrying thoughts that had kept him awake that night had almost disappeared. He felt Yennefer was not there. Geralt knew it was just an intuition but now he was also convinced by his own arguments. He could not imagine Yennefer in that place bustling with busy soldiers, officers shouting orders, and banners as far as the eye could see.

“Look, it’s our turn,” said Ciri. She clearly could not wait to cross the river and put themselves out of the reach of the Nilfgaardians. They had been waiting for hours among a mass of frightened peasants, impatient merchants, lowing cattle and crying children. The Northern armies had won the battle of Sodden Hill but the people living there were not willing to wait to see the final result of the war.

The peasants before them took the cart with their belongings and crossed the gate. Geralt and Ciri advanced and waited before the two soldiers standing guard. One of them, burly with thinning dark hair and a thick beard, had the Kaedweni unicorn in his shoulder. Three silver lilies decorated the breastplate of the second guard, a tall, younger man with curly chestnut hair. He was leaning against the wall, absorbed in his thoughts.

The Kaedweni soldier took his time looking Geralt up and down. After a quick glance at Ciri, he spoke with a tired and monotonous voice.

“Name?”

“Geralt. Of Rivia.”

“Rivia? What are you doing down here?”

“Witcher’s work. I rescued this girl and I am taking her to her only remaining family in Aldersberg.”

The Temerian soldier suddenly looked at him.

“You scum!” The soldier spat, grabbed his halberd and approached him. “I’ve heard of you. One of the deceiving witchers that ran with the money instead of doing their job. It had to be a true Temerian noble who sacrificed himself to save the princess and put you all to shame.”

Ciri looked anxiously at Geralt.

“Look, I think you are confusing me,” started the witcher.

“Impossible! Everyone knows you are the only witcher with white hair. Not many of you live long enough to get old,” said the soldier menacingly.

“Come on, Ralf. Wasn’t that a really long time ago? It’s not worth it,” interjected the Kaedweni.

“It is worth having this freak hung from a rope.”

“What is this talk about hanging?” A man in an ornately gilded breastplate approached them. He was in his fifties and had a noble countenance. “Geralt!”

“Segelin.” The witcher smiled with relief.

“Let him in, soldier. The King let him leave Vizima, are you saying he was wrong? Come on Geralt, follow me.”

Geralt and Ciri crossed the gate with Segelin.

“The power of royal propaganda. It never ceases to amaze me,” said the witcher.

“More than twenty years and people still remember it. Fortunately for you, some of us know the truth.”

“They often warn you against offending or confronting a king.” Geralt looked at a group of Nilfgaardian prisoners. “But nobody warns you against helping them.”

“You helped Foltest. And you did plenty of offending and confronting too. But let’s stop all this talk about politics, we must be boring her,” Segelin said smilingly, looking at Ciri. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, what’s your name?”

“I’m Fiona,” she said, as she had agreed with Geralt that morning.

“It’s a pleasure, Fiona. You don’t look like one of those farmers daughters.”

“I’m taking her to her family in Aedirn. She barely escaped the war, it’s awful down there,” Geralt said, trying to steer the conversation away from Ciri.

“I don’t doubt it. All these people fleeing… And we have lots of wounded here too.”

 _A broken keep full of broken people,_ thought the witcher. _Although not as broken as their first inhabitants yet._

“We could really use more healers,” continued the royal advisor. “That reminds me, there’s an old acquaintance of ours here. A sorceress.”

Geralt felt the muscles in her jaw tensing. The thoughts came rushing back. How could he have convinced himself so quickly and willingly without any information?

“Triss Merigold,” finished Segelin.

* * *

Geralt and Ciri arrived at the tent indicated by Segelin. It stood at the end of a labyrinth of canvas populated by lamenting wounded and rushing doctors.

“Wait here, Ciri.”

“No,” said the girl. “I want to see her.”

“The fewer people that see you, the better. I won’t be long.”

“Wait, Geralt. I… I haven’t told you everything. When that man took me in Cintra, he carried me in his horse out of the city. I was terrified and when I saw the city, the tower and the flames...” Ciri shuddered. “I felt something and I screamed. We fell from the horse, the earth was trembling. I saw his eyes under the helmet and screamed and screamed until a giant rock fell between us, the ground opened and I ran. That’s how I escaped.”

The witcher sighed.

“A long time ago, I saw your mother doing the same. You have something in you, Ciri. Something powerful and difficult to control.”

“That’s why I have to see her. She is a sorceress, she must know something about it. And… I have never seen one. Outside of my dreams.”

The witcher looked down and pondered.

“Fine, you can enter but don’t say anything about that. Stick to Fiona. There will come a time for you to learn how to control it but we are surrounded by an army right now. We will do it in our terms. Come on.”

Geralt entered the tent and instantly felt the pungent and sharp smell of ozone. The smell of spells and curses. A bed stood at the other end of the canvas. He saw a shape on it covered by linen.

“Triss?”

The shape moved slowly and a head sticked slightly out of the sheets.

“Geralt?” She sounded astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“We come from Upper Sodden. We are trying to cross the Yaruga and go north.”

 _“We?”_ Geralt and Ciri approached the bed. “Oh, I see. So you have been busy saving more girls.”

 _Yes, another princess in distress,_ thought Geralt. “More or less. How are you?” Geralt could only see part of her neck, covered in bandages. Triss noticed it and pulled the sheets slightly up.

“It looks awful but it’s healing, the magic takes its time with these injuries. Our bodies do not heal as quickly as yours. But it’s nothing compared to…” Triss leaned back. “It was horrific, Geralt. I have never seen anything like it. And so many friends, Coral, Atlan, Vanielle. And Yenna...”

Geralt froze. He felt his head rushing with a million thoughts and an icy shiver down his spine. He barely managed to utter his answer with a whisper.

“What?”

“What, did you know—,” started Triss.

“Yennefer. Where is she?” The witcher recalled the tears streaming down her face while Borch Three Jackdaws foretold their future. _And though you didn’t want to lose her, Geralt, you will._

“We don’t know.” Triss’s lips trembled. “I saw her leaving the keep. The Nilfgaardians had almost overrun us but she stopped them, Geralt. Tissaia was with her and she says Yenna disappeared suddenly.”

“Is she here? Tissaia?”

“Yes, she came to see me this morning.”

“Sorry, I have to find her. Cir— Fiona, stay here. I’ll come back.”

* * *

As Geralt rushed up the stairs of the ruined wall, his mind went back to the last things he had said to Yennefer. He had mocked her wish to be a mother and that had been the end of it. He recalled the furious face and glistening eyes of the sorceress as she had reminded him of his hypocrisy with his child surprise. _A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen,_ he had told her. And he knew that was the truth, having suffered himself the consequences of the flimsy whims of another sorceress. _Visenna. But what am I doing with Ciri? Am I just using her to atone for my mistakes until I appease my conscience and abandon her, perpetuating the cycle of abuse and neglect? She doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does._

He reached the top of the stairs and saw a woman leaning on the battlements of the wall, looking at the forest outside. Geralt noticed there was a huge black patch in the forest. It had the shape of a fan extending itself away from the fortress, as if it all had originated from the same point, a small rocky hillock. The woman heard him approaching and turned. Her dark brown hair was tied up and she was wearing a black dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Her hands held a small flower on a long slender stalk.

“Tissaia?”

“Who are you?” Her resonant and penetrating voice reminded him of Yennefer.

“I’m Geralt. A… friend of Yennefer.”

“So you are the witcher she was with.”

Geralt looked down and nodded.

“What happened to her?”

Tissaia looked at the forest outside and pondered. She brought the flower closer to Geralt.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A Feainnewedd flower. Where did you find it?”

“The elves who built this keep fell defending it. There was plenty of Elder blood spilled here for these flowers to grow from. We were close to meeting the same fate. But she refused. Do you see that burned patch in the forest?”

Geralt realized what had happened. Fire magic. The most powerful and most dangerous type.

“She burnt it all,” he muttered to himself.

“And then disappeared from that same spot. We would not be here if it were not for her sacrifice. There is something I used to say. _Sometimes the best thing a flower can do for us is to die_. What happened here made that clearer than ever, but…” Tissaia’s eyes glistened. The rectoress of Aretuza looked him in the eye. “I’ll find her.” She put the flower on one of the battlements and left.

* * *

Geralt found the hillock where it all had happened and climbed it very slowly. With each step he took he felt his legs getting heavier. The increasing smell of ash constricted his throat and oppressed his chest. He arrived at the top and a hellish scene appeared before his eyes. An endless field of death. The dark ground was punctuated by the corpses of soldiers and horses. No, not corpses, just blackened bones among dented helmets and broken lances. It was as if a giant vessel had shattered and its contents, contempt and despair, had been spilled over the earth. So much power and potential turned into death. Just death. An invasion had been stopped but the tragedy of the forest of Sodden Hill would barely amount to a small bump in the relentless course of history. Wars would go on, the death toll would rise higher and the broken survivors would be left without any explanation.

_You were so much more than this, Yen. This should not have been your legacy. I saw what no one else saw in you. In spite of everything the world did to you, in spite of the hardened shell you presented back to the world, you were capable of love. I saw it all. And now the vessel is broken and there is no way of putting its contents back together._

_I curse you, destiny. Why do you punish me? I denied you once and you destroyed the world of the child bound to me. Now you use the same tool to consume the woman I love. What do you want from me? To surrender to your endless cycle and give you another broken child? I refuse. You have taken everything from me._ Geralt fell to his knees. _Let us be done with this. Take… Take me by the hand._

He felt the wind in his face. The smell of ash inundated his whole being. _The sword of destiny has two edges._ Ciri had repeated the enigmatic sentence in dreams. _It is all my fault. I thought I could play with the sword of destiny without hurting myself or the one I love._ He felt a burning fury raising from his guts that by the time it reached his eyes had transformed into bitter tears. _I won’t make the same mistake again. I will take the opportunity you gave us and break the cycle. I will turn your legacy into something more._

“You were right, Yen. I’m sorry.”

He posed the Feainnewedd flower on the ground and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! All feedback is welcome. I might post more chapters with some ideas I have for Season 2.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Here is the second chapter exploring what happened to Yennefer.
> 
> I have been quite busy lately but now I have a more defined idea for the next chapters. Originally this was going to be a longer chapter but I decided to split it up.
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback to the first chapter, I'm really grateful for the response. Comments are always appreciated!

The sea was strangely calm. Small waves gently caressed the beach, producing a soothing sound. Yennefer felt the warmth of the first rays of sun on her skin as she opened her eyes. She was lying among a mess of splintered wooden planks, tangled ropes and ripped sails. Standing up, she saw the rest of the shipwreck. It must have been a magnificent ship once. Now, the planks that had formed its hull were scattered in splinters along the beach.

As she walked among the wreck, she realized that there was no one else there. No bodies and no survivors, except for her. And a trail of footprints that led away from the shipwreck. She decided to follow it along the beach. It was not long before the sorceress noticed rests of blood between the footprints. At first, just some drops. But as she walked on, the drops thickened and multiplied until they formed a continuous red trail of fresher and fresher blood.

After some time, Yennefer arrived at a small mound of sand where the trails suddenly ended. There were no more footprints around it. The sorceress could not make sense of it but felt something calling her from the mound. So she knelt down and began to dig with her bare hands. She did not stop when a vulture landed in front of her and stared intently at her. She did not stop when parts of a colorful blanket appeared among the sand. The sorceress dug until she saw a small pallid face. It was just a baby. Yennefer knew the girl was dead but she desperately wanted to take her out of the sand. She dug more and tried to free her but it was impossible. Something was holding her there. The sorceress cursed and retired the rest of the sand over the body. Then she saw them. Two adult, bloodstained hands embracing the corpse.

More determined than ever, she dug around the hands until she could see the arms under white sleeves surrounded by black and white ropes. As she uncovered the rest of the body she thought that the dress was familiar to her. But she did not realize whose body it was until she unearthed the second face. Her own face. The sorceress staggered back and fell on the sand. She noticed then that she was completely naked. With some effort, she stood up and approached the bodies again. Yennefer looked at her own face in the sand when suddenly the eyes opened and the world became violet. Then Yennefer woke up.

The first thing she felt was pain. Pain all over her body. A sharp sting in her belly where Sabrina had stabbed her with an arrow. A searing hurt in her hands with which she had casted the fire spell. And a nauseating headache focused around her eyes. The pain was too real for it to be another dream.

_Where am I?_ The world was completely dark. Too dark. The air was thick and carried the smell of dust. _I must have portalled into a deep cave_. She brought her fingers close to her eyes but she still could not see them. She pressed them against her closed eyes. Nothing. Just a sticky substance around them. _Blood. Am I blind?_ The nausea became worse and she tried to scream desperately. But her throat was completely dry. She noticed another pain in her stomach, a terrible hunger, and the numb sensation in her limbs. _I must have lied here for days. No one is coming to rescue me. I must find my way out._ As she tried to sit up, the world spinned and her head hit the ground. A wave of pain crashed against her, completely submerging her. _Tissaia, I’m here. Geralt, get the girl, wake—_ The sorceress suddenly felt the cold rock beneath her and a terrible fatigue extending all over her body. An irresistible force slowly closed her eyes and tried to drag her into sleep. _No! I must do something before it’s too late_ _._

“Tissaia?” Only a hoarse croak came out of her mouth. And then Yennefer recalled the battle. Falling from the tower with Sabrina when the explosions shook the earth. The smell of burnt meat as she saw Triss lying feverish on the ground. The bodies piled outside of the Elven fortress. Her desperate telepathic calls that went unanswered. The sorceress realized that was her last hope. She mustered her last remaining strength and called.

_Help. Somebody help me._

And she passed out.

* * *

Elaine left her room and closed the door quietly. She waited in the dark hallway for a moment, pricking up her ears. The novice heard the murmur of the waves coming faintly from a window in another room. It was certainly not her own room; she always closed the window when she was in there. She could not stand the sound of the sea. Or its sight. The novice could not hear any other sound in the hallway so she started walking. The professors had to be asleep by now.

It had been two nerve-racking weeks in Aretuza since the rectoress and a sizable group of professors had left for the war. A rebellious excitement spread through the academy for the first days. The professors that had stayed, labeled as cowards by the most unruly novices, responded with stern measures, imposing a curfew and banning access to Tor Lara. When news of the massacre of Cintra arrived, a thick silence came to reign, broken only by the crying of the few Cintran novices.

But just two days before, a bruised sorcerer had portalled in from Sodden Hill, carrying news of the victory in the last stand for the Elven keep. Everyone had celebrated and forgotten past worries even though the curfew was still in place. Elaine, however, could not stop thinking about the rest of the story told by the sorcerer. Thirty-eight out of the sixty mages that had arrived in Sodden had fled before the decisive battle. Only him and seven others had survived. Thirteen sorcerers’ bodies had been found on the battlefield and one sorceress was still missing.

As Elaine made her way through corridors and down staircases, she imagined the rest of the survivors, wounded and broken after the hell they had lived through. Nilfgaard had suffered a devastating defeat at Sodden Hill, but how long before another black and golden wave crashed against the North? And how could the Cintrans liberate themselves from the Nilfgaardian yoke when only eight sorcerers had survived Sodden?

Elaine was engrossed in these thoughts when she arrived at the last door. She clenched her fists. She could graduate in just another year if she stayed. But the novice reminded herself that the war would not wait for her. After taking a deep breath, she opened the door and looked at the slender bridge that connected Aretuza with the isle where Tor Lara stood. The novice began walking resolutely but staggered when her eyes inevitably looked at the sea below.

In that moment she relived it all over again. The fish stalls flashing past her along the pier while she was running away from her father. The cart laden with mussels appearing in front of her out of nowhere. The misstep while trying to avoid it, throwing her off the pier. And the green waters engulfing her, rough and cold. She tried to scream for help but only managed to swallow water from the relentless waves. As she panicked, she felt a new and strange sensation surging through her. The waves suddenly stopped. But she could not control the energy flowing through her and the waves changed direction, forming a whirlpool that had almost seized her.

Elaine looked at the top of the tower in front of her and forced herself to put her right foot on the bridge. She focused on the ending of that childhood memory. Someone had noticed her being dragged by the whirlpool and threw a rope at her, saving her from a certain death. A few days later, a sorceress from Aretuza had arrived at her home and offered her a new life that she had eagerly accepted. And now, to continue that path she had to go to Tor Lara and open a portal to Sodden.

The novice began to cross the bridge with renewed confidence. If she wanted to join a war, she had to overcome her fears. But when she was almost in the middle of the bridge, she heard a loud voice and tripped, almost falling to the sea. The novice grabbed the railing and looked around panting. She could have sworn a woman right next to her had called for help but there was no one else under the moonlight. Then she heard the voice again.

“Somebody help me.”

* * *

Tissaia looked through the window of the small room. The sun was setting, painting the calm sea in orange and red tones. The sorceress sighed and looked at the woman lying on the bed beside her.

“This is all my life, it's always been. Rectoress of the Academy of Sorceresses of Aretuza. It's an ungrateful life. You have to steer broken girls into the hardest paths. Most novices can't wait to lose sight of you.”

She looked through the window at the lone seagull crossing the red sky.

“However, very few times you see something different in a girl. Something in her eyes that sets her apart from any other novice. She doesn't have to be the brightest student at first, it has nothing to do with that. But you look at her and feel as if you are looking into a mirror, you can't avoid being drawn to her. And she can't avoid being drawn to you. Then, after years of training, when she is ready to leave the academy and start her life outside, you feel as if she were your own—.” Tissaia sighed. “But they have to leave and they are always the ones that shine the brightest. The ones that never come back.”

Tissaia sat on the chair next to the bed and listened to the slow, deep breathing of the woman.

“I remember when you arrived here. You were pure chaos, your wrists still carry its marks. I told you to control it to survive in this world, to please kings, to represent the Brotherhood, to carry on countless responsibilities for other people's good. And you contained it for too long. No one can say now that you haven't fulfilled your duties as a sorceress. You went further than that. You went further than I had any right to ask of you. Maybe you don't have to carry the world upon your shoulders. Maybe it's time to let other people share that load with you.”

The woman suddenly gasped. Tissaia kneeled beside the bed, her eyes opened wide.

“Yennefer?” she whispered.

“Help— Where am I?” said Yennefer in a feeble voice. Her eyes were moving wildly, like trying to find something that was not there. “I can’t see…”

The world before her eyes was undefined. However hard she tried to focus on the blurry forms around her, the objects did not reveal themselves. Were they even real? The situation was unacceptable to the determined sorceress, from whom not even invisible veins of magical force deep below the earth could hide. Her breathing quickened as she sank in her powerlessness. The feeling that she despised the most. The hazy world was starting to spin when she suddenly felt a warm hand in her face. Something _real_.

“Breathe in, you are going to be fine.” The voice brought a wave of memories, pleasant and hurtful, but most crucially, familiar. Memories that were deeply ingrained in her. “We are in Aretuza. You have been in a healing sleep for a long time.”

“Tissaia? You are alive.” She slowly recovered her breath. The world stopped spinning but the forms were still shapeless. “What happened? My eyes—”

“Your eyes are recovering. It takes some time after… You used fire to stop them. To save us.” Her voice broke off. Yennefer heard a sniff. “They found you in Tor Lara some days after. Why did you portal in there? If Elaine had not found you...”

“I don’t remember.” Yennefer bit her lip. “I thought I was going to die. Like Coral. Vanielle. Triss… What happened to her?”

“She is fine. The burns were deep but she already recovered. Just last week she left Aretuza.”

Yennefer sighed. _She survived. But how many lifeless eyes were staring at me as I walked among the ruins? Eyes that were determined, full of force just a few hours before. Everything sacrificed for one cause._

The sorceress gasped as she felt the nausea rising from her stomach. She tossed her head aside and clenched her teeth, trying to fight it in vain.

“You are alive.” Yennefer felt Tissaia’s hand in her temple, brushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her face. “And you will heal. I will be here with you until you do.”

Yennefer clasped Tissaia’s hand with her own trembling hand. The world was blurrier behind her tears. With effort, she muttered two words.

“Thank you.”

* * *

A galleon was leaving the port. The white sails hanging from its three masts shined under the bright sun. It was a splendid morning. There was not a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze was blowing. The flag on top of the galleon fluttered.

“Red and… Silver. Redanian?”

“Close. Can you see the three golden keys?”

“Hm. Novigradian. Shit.”

“It’s only been two weeks, Yennefer. You are recovering fairly quickly.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel like it.”

“You can’t wait to leave.”

“To leave? I don’t even know where to go. It’s just…” Yennefer sighed and rested her elbows over the balustrade. “Every time I open my eyes I see these blurs. My imagination fills the blanks. And it’s always the same faces.”

“Yennefer…”

“I’m sure this truce deal was for the better. No more senseless deaths. No army would get the upper hand, so why continue fighting? But still, _half_ of Sodden. _All_ of Cintra. Everyone to the south of the Yaruga, abandoned to Nilfgaard.” Yennefer looked at Tissaia. “Sure, they died so that we can keep our freedom. For a little bit longer. How many more times must we _stop_ them before the whole Continent is theirs?”

“I know how you feel. I have thought about this, day and night.”

Yennefer saw Tissaia’s head turning to the sea in front of them.

“I have been in charge of Aretuza for a very long time. Responsible for the safety and the future of hundreds and hundreds of girls. But I have never lived anything like that battle. So many talented mages, so many lives. Knights, drafted soldiers, common people just trying to run away from that hell… We have to avoid another war and there is only one way I can think of. Nilfgaard will never attack a united North. It won’t be an easy task but I have to devote all my efforts to it. That’s why I am resigning as rectoress.”

“What? But— What are you going to do?”

“I have talked with Vilgefortz. He orchestrated the truce deal and he agrees with me. We have to stop the next war before it happens.”

Yennefer did not know what to say. _Tissaia de Vries leaving Aretuza. The world has truly gone mad._

“You know, it’s funny. I thought you were going to ask me to stay here.”

“The world is changing. After what Fringilla did, I can’t go on training more girls and pretend nothing happened. And I can’t just wait for the next war to send more mages to their deaths. Yennefer…” Tissaia grabbed her hand on the railing. “Thank you for coming to Sodden. For saving us. You could have walked away like so many others did. But you stayed until the end.”

Yennefer squeezed Tissaia’s hand and stayed silent. Tissaia looked at her hesitantly.

“In Sodden Hill… I saw Geralt. A few days after the battle. He looked awfully worried about you.”

“Geralt? In Sodden Hill? What—” _Oh. Of course. The wish._ Yennefer snorted. “He will never give up.”

“He was traveling north with a girl, getting her out of the war. Triss talked with her. She said— It’s probably nothing but she felt something strange between them.”

_Geralt getting himself in the middle of a war to rescue a girl? Either the reward was insanely high or the shortage of witcher work is far worse than I thought._

“Maybe I’ll ask Triss about them if I happen to go to Vizima.”

“You won’t find her there. A message arrived last night from Foltest. He asks her to go to Vizima to investigate the murder of one of the king’s advisors, lord Segelin. It’s a shame, we met him in Sodden too. It seems magic was involved.”

_Too many pieces out of place. Geralt gets himself in the middle of a war to take care of a mysterious girl. Triss leaves her responsibilities without warning anyone. A royal advisor gets killed when the ink of the truce deal is still fresh. Something is off._

“Triss Merigold abandoning the people of Temeria to their luck. I’ll have to admit the world is indeed changing.” Yennefer smiled wryly. “Something really urgent must have come up. Well, I guess someone should preserve the good name of the sorceresses of Aretuza.”

* * *

Yennefer felt the warmth of magic running through her fingers as the wall in front of her started to warp and twist. The air became heavy with the smell of ozone. When she finished the spell and the portal was fully formed, she looked at Tissaia at her side. She saw the faintest of smiles on her face.

“You were always good with portals, from the very beginning.”

“I guess that’s a side effect of always wanting to run away.”

“Maybe. Even now?”

“Well, my sight has restored quite nicely. I can see your eyebrows arching in disbelief right now, so I think my eyes are good to go.”

“I won’t try to argue with you, your eyes seem to be ready. And the rest of you?”

“What, did you want me to stay here while you go on your political adventures with Vilgefortz? I have a friend to find. I must say a few words to her about leaving me before I could see that she was fine with my own eyes .”

Tissaia gave her a meaningful look.

“That sounds like a good enough reason to me.”

_Fuck. She knows._ Yennefer had been trying to convince herself that she was going to Vizima just to find out about Triss. But there was a question that she was unable to get out of her mind. _What if he didn’t lie? What if the wish has nothing to do with what I still feel? With these thoughts that in spite of everything I can’t leave behind?_

The sorceress had spent most of the last days in the vast library of Aretuza. To exercise her eyes, she had told Tissaia. But her curiosity had been drawn more and more towards a certain area of the library, in the Creatures section, sharing the Genies bookshelf with marides, afreets and d'ao. She had studied Geoffrey Monck’s heavy volumes, examined every book by his colleagues Ivo Richert and Giambattista, even looked through the tedious Dialogues on the Nature of Magic by Herbert Stammelford. And every mention of djinns had been accompanied by the same warning towards sorcerers with enough skill, despair or insanity to attempt to capture one. No creature possesses a deepest sense of resentment or a greater capacity for revenge than a djinn does. And there is only one immovable obstacle against its unstoppable lust for vengeance: its master’s wishes.

_The djinn was bent on killing me. It pulled and thrashed until it destroyed the roof of the mayor’s house. But when Geralt freed it, it didn’t follow me. We both survived. Could he really have— But why would he—_ At any other moment, Yennefer would have been furious over the thought that Geralt had believed her magic too weak to stop the djinn. But after the battle of Sodden Hill, after tasting the bitter limits of her power the seed of doubt was planted in her mind. _He has never been able to lie to my face. I will find him, I will look him in the eye, I will ask the question. And I will listen to his answer._

A voice suddenly shook her from her thoughts.

“You should go. You have been keeping that portal open for a while.”

Tissaia was smiling at her.

“Tissaia, thank you. For… everything.” Yennefer smiled back at her.

The violet-eyed sorceress took a deep breath, stepped into the portal and felt the cold void surrounding her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic, mystery and murder at Vizima. Looking for her friend Triss, Yennefer gets embroiled in a murder investigation. As she unveils mistrust, conspiracy and treason among the Temerian army, a darker secret awaits her.

“You are not the sorceress I was waiting for.”

“Well, Triss was not in Aretuza so I thought I could stop by. I hope you are not too disappointed.”

The confused look of the man in front of Yennefer slowly turned into a surprisingly frank smile.

“Raven hair, violet eyes. The hero of the fucking hill, I'll take it. They wouldn't stop talking about you, you know. Everyone thought you died.”

“Sorry for the second disappointment of the day, then. That should put a stop to that hero nonsense.”

The man’s laughter echoed in the hall.

“You know, the thing about heroes is you don't get a say in it. No one chooses to become a hero and no one can do shit about it after becoming one. A hero is an ideal, a marble statue sculpted to inspire the masses. And marble can't talk. You’ve seen the statue of Lord Ostrit in the square? Statues are supposed to stoically endure the birds shitting on them while keeping their inspiring pose.”

“Like I’m supposed to endure this conversation, I guess.”

The man’s grin widened. His head was completely bald but his age was difficult to guess. Yennefer decided on late forties.

“The thing is, no one gives a shit about what the hero has to say about it, even less if they try to bring down their own statue.”

“I suppose I’m completely hopeless then,” said Yennefer amused. “I didn't expect to find quite a cynic in courtier clothes.”

“I am a loyal servant of the king. But in my trade, idealism is a liability. Bernard Ducat, head of the secret service of King Foltest.”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg. Sorceress.”

Bernard nodded.

“We were hoping Triss would come but we could really use your help, too. I suppose you’ve read the letter about Segelin, really unfortunate stuff. You know, with the magic involved in the murder and all, Foltest is not ready to trust just any sorcerer right now and I don’t blame him. But you? We can work with you. And for this we need a bloody mage, I can tell you that. You’d be generously rewarded, of course.”

“As flattering as your offer is, right now I’m more interested in finding Triss. If you have any information…”

“About her whereabouts? Sadly, no.” Bernard smiled again. “But I think your best lead lies within this investigation. We have common interests in this.”

“Look, I started navigating through court plots and bullshitters before you left the cradle. I’m not going to get involved in this mess without hard evidence.”

“Your fame precedes you, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” said Bernard. “I wouldn’t offend you by trying to enlist you into the king’s service or appeal to your patriotism. And I wouldn’t dare try to trick you. I’m talking about real evidence.”

The sorceress looked at the spy, unsure of what to make of the situation. During her time as advisor in Aedirn, she had developed a sixth sense for bullshitters. The man in front of her did not set any alarms, but that was always the case with the best plotters. The ones whose stabs sank the deepest into your back.

“What evidence?”

“Follow me.”

Bernard and Yennefer left the hall through a side door. They walked along narrow corridors with high ceilings, barely illuminated by candles. A soft rain greeted them as they entered a cloister framed by slender columns covered in ivy. The pleasant summer weather had left and the days were getting shorter.

“It’s going to be a hard winter,” said Bernard.

“Huh?”

“Leaves haven’t fallen yet. You know, I’ve been thinking. In winter, while everyone shelters from the snow, wolves thrive. They are perfectly adapted to the cold so they are at their most active then.”

The spy held the sorceress gaze for a little longer than she was comfortable with.

“Nobody believes this truce with Nilfgaard will last long,” said Bernard. “Everyone’s licking their wounds and warming their bones now, but if we want to make it to the next winter, people like me will have to do their job. To win a war, you must teach the peasants to move in a straight line and hold a pike by the right end, sure. But just as important is to know when to strike. This murder reeks of Nilfgaard. If we can prove they’re involved, we will have a nice casus belli up our sleeve. And when everything aligns, we will play the card onto the table.”

“I’ve dealt with Nilfgaard from up close,” said the sorceress. “When you try to outwit them, you need to be just as careful you don’t end up playing into their trap.”

“Believe me, I’m used to it.” Bernard grinned. “We’re going to meet the officer who discovered Segelin’s body. He’s a rising star in the Temerian army. Just one thing, he probably won’t take your sarcasm as well as I do. He takes his job _very_ seriously.”

Bernard stopped before a closed door. He gave a meaningful look to Yennefer before opening it.

“Lieutenant Roche.”

“Master Ducat,” answered a gravelly voice inside the room.

“I want you to meet a… partner. The sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

The officer wore a blue tunic with three white lilies on his chest and carried a longsword at his side. Yennefer smiled faintly while Roche bowed his head. He had short-cropped blond hair and a rugged face that made him look older than he probably was. The hauberk under his tunic clanked as he straightened up.

“Ma’am.”

“Lieutenant,” nodded the sorceress.

“We should start by going to the murder scene,” chimed in Bernard. “I'll order three horses ready.”

“Wait,” said the sorceress. “First of all, the evidence.”

“Of course,” smiled the spy. “Lieutenant, you heard Segelin’s last words.”

“I did.” The officer’s face hardened. “He was bleeding out, his voice was very weak. I only understood two words. _Warn Triss_.”

The sorceress looked Bernard in the eye.

“Well, go get those horses.”

* * *

A storm was raging over the narrow and tortuous streets of Vizima. What started as a few drops had quickly turned into a relentless downpour. Wet cobbles rang under the hooves of five horses going down a steep alleyway. Riding in the middle, Yennefer adjusted her soaked hood. She had been to Vizima twice in the past to visit Triss and bad weather had always greeted her. But somehow, the dark streets felt more oppressive to her this time.

Yennefer suspected Triss had become involved in some court intrigue. Ever since her first days in Aretuza, her younger friend had shown a need to be liked by her superiors. A need that usually led to her playing the hero a bit too much for her own good. Was it worth sacrificing yourself for the good of people that would never truly respect you? People that would betray you in an instant and say with a smile that it was for the greater good. People that would insult you while you were trying to save them. People that would bargain their own newborn for the illusion of saving their own skin.

The chestnut-haired sorceress had left Aretuza weeks ago but no one had seen her arrive in Vizima. Maybe she had been warned by someone on the way. But where had she gone? Yennefer could not imagine a threat so dangerous that would make Triss hide but not enough to make her contact Tissaia or herself at Aretuza. The sorceress glanced at the two soldiers riding in the rear. There could be a traitor among them. Or even closer. She looked at Ducat and Roche talking in the front. Without Triss here, she could not trust anyone.

Ducat signaled the group and they entered a small stable. As the men tried to dry their coats in vain, Yennefer muttered a few words in Elder Speech and passed her hands over her clothes. A minute later, she approached Roche, still shaking his cape.

“Lieutenant. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you find Segelin?”

Roche extended his still soaked cape over a fence and turned to Yennefer.

“It’s a long story. There was a rumor in camp. Some soldiers were saying that Segelin was a traitor confabulating with nonhumans.”

Yennefer arched a brow.

“And what do you think?”

“Most probably, just bullshit. Since Nilfgaard invaded Cintra, there have been rumors of elves helping them. Of course, it’s false. No elves have been seen in Cintra for years but people haven’t forgotten about Filavandrel’s Uprising. Every now and then, accusations of nonhuman conspiracy are flung around without a shred of evidence to be found. Then again, to the local baron facing a revolt by hungry peasants, a couple of elves or halflings are expendable and a pogrom is just another way of calming the starving masses.”

“Bastards.” An ice-cold wave of memories hit the sorceress, bringing back old faces. “I was advising King Virfuril when the Vengerberg Pogrom broke out. Those smug faces spouting empty justifications… Just pray that your king will be stronger than those voices when the time comes.”

Roche stood in silence for a while.

“Well, I found a soldier that had been spreading the rumor about Segelin among my unit. I tracked him down to this abandoned store.”

The group moved towards the building that Roche had pointed out.

“Here,” he continued. “The bastard must have noticed I was following him because he attacked me as soon as I crossed the threshold. Luckily, I managed to kill him. And then I heard noises and screams coming from the basement. It took me a while to find this hidden door. Down these stairs now.”

Ducat told the guards to stay and followed the officer and the sorceress downstairs.

“When I got here,” said Roche, “I only found Segelin tied up to a chair, bleeding out from a wound in his throat.”

Yennefer looked at a big dark stain on the wooden floor. A clean square-shaped spot in the center of the stain indicated the place where the chair had stood as Segelin gave his last breaths. On a table nearby laid iron pincers among other tools. The rust on the pincers was difficult to tell apart from the dried blood.

“Those butchers were ripping out his nails.” Roche scowled at the pincers. “Trying to get something from him.”

“Strange,” said the sorceress. “Are you sure this was a mage?”

“We checked every nook and cranny,” said Ducat. “No trap doors, no fake walls, nothing. A portal is the only way they could have escaped. It had to be a mage.”

“A graduated sorcerer doesn’t need torture to get the truth out of someone. So we’re dealing with a particularly sadistic mage or something else entirely.”

Yennefer felt a tingling sensation in the fingertips of her right hand. She turned towards the wall at her side and approached it, extending an arm and feeling her hand vibrating in response to magic impulses she was sending. The sorceress touched one of the bricks in the wall. There was no doubt, it was the source.

_“Agweth, feldon’me te seindre_.”

Yennefer retired her hand quickly as the wall in front of her groaned and moved to the side, showing a small room behind it.

“Shit," Ducat smiled at Roche. “I told you we needed a mage for this.”

The dusty air in the room made Yennefer cough. The sorceress saw several weapons on one side of the room: swords, daggers and a crossbow. A table stood on the opposite side, filled with several papers, a bottle of ink and a quill.

“There’s a map of Aedirn here,” said the raven-haired sorceress. “I don’t think they were planning on a pleasure trip to the Valley of Flowers. Hmm… a few papers in some sort of code. Wait, this letter is in Common Speech.”

Ducat and Roche stared at Yennefer as she read the letter to herself. Her face blanched suddenly when her eyes set on the bottom of the letter.

“What?” asked Ducat. “What is it?”

“The letter is addressed to Segelin. Asking him to come here. The bait.”

“Who signed it?”

Yennefer stared at Ducat silently. She pressed her lips, as if she was trying to keep the answer from leaving her mouth.

“No name. Just— _Wolf._ ”

“Let me see,” said Ducat as he grabbed the letter.

Yennefer left the two men in the small room, walking nervously to the opposite wall. The assassins had based their plan on a word. _Wolf._ They had relied on that word to bring a royal advisor into their hands. What did that word mean to Segelin? Who had he hope to meet?

The sorceress sat on a chair and watched Ducat extract a tiny bottle from his belt. The spy carefully poured a few drops over the letter and waited. Overwhelmed, Yennefer leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She noticed something familiar next to her left boot.

“Aha!” Ducat said triumphantly. “I knew this would come useful. We have been marking each piece of paper distributed to each unit. 5th Company, 2nd Mariborian Infantry Regiment. The marks are clear.”

“And this,” said Yennefer, extending her hand as she approached them, “is proof that the assassins used a portal to escape. And not just any other portal.”

“What is that?” Roche asked.

“Feainnewedd.”

* * *

“Soldier, the camp is closed by order of Lord Ducat. Don’t let anyone leave until new order.”

“Are we supposed to shit in our tents or what?”

The officer shot a piercing glance at the soldier standing guard. There was a thick, brief silence.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Everyone, you heard him. Go back inside.”

Yennefer smiled amusingly at Roche.

“It seems to me they are a bit afraid of you, Lieutenant.”

“Not enough,” Roche returned the smile. “But they will get there. Ducat must be closing the other exit already, we can go in.”

As the sun tried to make its way timidly through the thinning clouds, their horses did the same over the muddy ground. The storm that had discharged its fury over Vizima was leaving in search of its next victim. Before the sorceress and the officer, a forest of black and white tents hastily came back to life. Officers bellowed orders and the clank of swords grew around them. The smells of wet earth and burning wood fought all over the camp.

Yennefer put her hand in her pocket and felt the stalk of Feainnewedd. Hard stubs stood in the place where the petals should have been. The touch of the stubs sent her to a place in a time long gone. Tor Lara. Her first teleportation. Istredd. The sorcerer had shown her the power contained in these petals. An old power, hidden to most. Untraceable portals that opened with just two words. _Vond agwethil._

First, the letter signed by _Wolf_. Then, a bitten Feainnewedd flower. Old feelings that had hurt her time and again, now unburied. Were Geralt or Istredd involved in this strange conspiracy? Was someone else using them to drive her crazy?

Yennefer sighed deeply and stopped her train of thought. No one could have predicted she would end up involved in this. No one was trying to use her old lovers against her. But then, who else could be aware of the secret of the old flowers? Istredd’s old master, Stregobor? Another of his pupils from Ban Ard? She had to find out before anyone else was killed.

“The 5th Company is camped right there,” said Roche. “Ducat should be here soon.”

“Do you trust him?” Yennefer asked.

“Who, Ducat? He… has his methods. Weird man, isn’t he? But he’s a patriot, a loyal man of the king. And he’s the one who brought you into this investigation, so we can trust him on that at least.”

“His language is pretty colorful,” admitted the sorceress, “but there’s more to him than that. I’ve seen his gestures, the way he gives orders to his subordinates. I would bet a few orens that he has noble blood.”

“You can keep your orens, he comes from a noble family. King Foltest trusts him more than anyone. From what I’ve heard, he’s one of the courtiers that helped him bring order back to the realm after the troubles with Princess Adelaide.”

“I have heard something about it.” Yennefer looked at Roche and hesitated for a moment. “A witcher lifted the curse, right?”

“Depends on who you ask. No one knows for sure.”

A sad smile crept across Yennefer’s face.

“That seems to be the usual deal with these witchers.”

“From the stories people tell,” said Roche, “I’d say _money_ is the only deal with them.”

“Oh, I forgot you noble knights are far above that, right?”

The officer stared at the sorceress for a second, trying to decide if she was playing with him.

“I’m no noble. So you can spare the sarcasm, ma’am.”

“You can call me Yennefer,” she smiled. “Please accept my apologies, Lieutenant. I've had my fair share of noble knights and I have long made up my mind on them.”

“Then I’ll ask you to call me Vernon. No need for apologies, I have also had enough experience with nobles. And right now, my opinion of them is worsening by the minute. Where is Ducat? Damn it, let’s go already, we can’t afford to waste more time.”

* * *

Vernon Roche looked at the soldier sitting in front of him, tying his boots.

“Decurion Polck?”

The soldier finished tying his boots and rose from the bench. From almost seven feet high, a low voice growled a question.

“Who’s asking?”

“Lieutenant Roche and Yennefer of Vengerberg. By order of Lord Ducat. That is, from King Foltest.”

“Then yeah, Decurion Polck at your service,” the man laughed as he crossed his burly arms. “I don’t know if it reached you, but we’re getting ready for another war. So please make it quick.”

“As quick as you wish. I’ve been told that you are in charge of the mail in the 5th Company.”

“Aye.”

“Then you would know if someone from this unit sent a message to Lord Segelin.”

“Hah! To a lord? If I knew I could send messages to them, they would have heard long ago about these fucking rags they call uniforms. You know how many times I’ve had to mend these boots?”

Yennefer focused and stopped hearing Polck’s complaints. A moment later, she was hearing a cacophony of thoughts, masking each other. But slowly, one word rose above the others, becoming clearer and clearer until the sorceress could make it out.

“Ralf.”

Polck stopped his rant suddenly. He looked down at the two violet eyes piercing him.

“Who is Ralf?”

“Eh… Ralf? How—,” he stuttered.

“Ralf Bollier. Do I have to keep going?”

“I don’t know—” Polck’s eyes grew wider.

“You owed him money. From… dice, right?”

The decurion grabbed his head between two giant hands.

“Stop!”

“Start talking. I will know if you’re lying. And you will regret it.”

“Alright. Look, I don’t want to get mixed up in this. I know Ralf from Sodden Hill. We both were assigned to guard one of the gates, we were in different turns. It’s true, I owed him money from a game. But then we were sent home, I thought he had forgotten about it. He appeared out of nowhere some weeks ago, here in Vizima.”

“And you let him use the army mail. Sealed his letter and everything.”

“I didn’t know anything!”

“Which means,” said Roche, “that you know _something_ now.”

The decurion sighed and sat down in the bench.

“I heard later that he had been saying things about Segelin. That he was a traitor, consorting with non-humans.”

“ _Wolf._ ” Yennefer’s eyes flashed like lightning as she got closer to him. “Did he say anything about _Wolf_?”

“What?”, said Polck with a surprised face. “No.”

“About a witcher, then?”

Roche looked at her, puzzled.

“A witcher and a girl,” nodded the decurion. “He said Segelin defended them or something. I don’t know anything else.”

“Where is he?” Roche asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“Lieutenant Roche!” A breathless voice arrived from behind them. An exhausted soldier stopped running and tried to recover his breath.

“What?”

“Someone escaped from the camp. Lord Ducat went after him with a few soldiers, but…” The soldier spat on the ground. “The bastard has a fresh horse and a head start on them.”

“Where did he go?” Yennefer asked.

“He took the road to Carreras.”

“Good,” said the sorceress as she closed her eyes.

The air in front of her slowly turned into a swirling mist.

“Vernon?”

“Yes?”

“Grab the horses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you are all safe. Writing this chapter has helped me take my mind off the news during these crazy times, I hope reading it can do a bit of the same to you. This chapter grew beyond what I expected, so I decided to divide it in two parts. What you have here is the first one. I have borrowed a couple of characters from the games, I hope you don't mind. As always, all feedback is welcome. Stay safe!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer unravels the conspiracy behind the murder in Vizima. Following the thread, she discovers something unexpected about Geralt and the serpent bites its tail.

The afternoon sun filtered through the thicket of branches at the side of the road, painting a sharp chiaroscuro over Yennefer and Roche. The lieutenant narrowed his eyes towards the west, trying to find a lone rider galloping from Vizima. Losing his patience, he put a feet in the stirrup of his horse and climbed on top of it, hoping to find a better perspective of the soon-to-be battlefield.

“Get off the horse,” said Yennefer. “He will see you.”

“Are you sure you can stop him?”

Yennefer threw him a piercing glance.

“By all means,” she said sardonically after a while, “stay on your horse if it helps you with your insecurities.”

Roche looked at her, trying to contain the offended expression on his face. He bit his lip, snorted and got off the horse.

“We should just go towards them and catch Ralf between us.”

“Why are you so impatient? He has to pass through this road, we are in no hurry.”

“Because we know he was not alone,” the officer sighed. “He conspired with more people. Maybe they’re waiting for him, just like us.”

“Then it’s clear,” answered the sorceress, “that we should not be the first ones to show our cards. We are only two and Ralf has probably half the Temerian army behind him. Relax, we have some time. I thought you would feel safer just a few miles from Foltest’s army.”

“Yeah, mock me all you want,” said Roche as he sat in front of the sorceress, with his sheathed longsword on his lap. “When you grow up in the Temeria I knew, you never really stop seeing bandits by the roadsides.”

“Well, we have to kill time somehow. Tell me about it.”

“I suppose it’s a long story,” said the lieutenant as he made himself comfortable. “Twenty years ago, there was no order in Temeria. Everyone in Vizima was absorbed by the troubles with Princess Adelaide. The worst scum, bandits and vagrants, roamed the countryside, robbing, killing and everything in between. And you know what the people in charge did? Barons, counts and every prick who had been trusted with some authority hid where they could. Some even made deals with the bandits, letting them rob a few merchants in exchange for a share of the spoils. That was all I knew growing up in Dorian. And that’s the reason I know that all this safety can be turned into chaos at any moment if we let our guard down.”

“I guess you have a point,” nodded Yennefer. “But this Temeria does not look like that. How did they fix the problem?”

“Well, some time after Princess Adelaide was cured, an army unit was sent to the city and restored order. No, that sounds much prettier than what happened.”

The cold in his voice gave Yennefer a chill down her spine.

“It was nasty. Bloody. Not pretty at all. But it was necessary. Had they come a bit earlier, maybe my mother would still be alive. That’s why I joined the army. Because when the times are tough, the barons and the mayors run into their castles and mansions and say _‘This is the way of the world’_ while they sit by their hearth protected by their guards. But we who grew up with nothing cannot afford cynicism. We _need_ hope. And the army gave it to me.”

The sorceress nodded and they did not say anything for a while.

“But enough about me,” said Roche as he looked into Yennefer’s eyes. “I take it that you don’t want to betray his identity but… Who is that witcher to you? _Wolf._ ”

The sorceress took a deep breath and looked into the distance. Her hand unconsciously went into one of her pockets.

“He’s… many things to me,” she said as she felt the stubs of Feainnewedd, one by one. “But in the end it’s what you said. He gives me hope. Hope that the dreams I buried under decades of cynicism are not just dreams. That there is something more to my life than this.”

A bitter chuckle left the sorceress mouth.

“Here you have your hero of Sodden Hill. An old witch who can’t stop thinking like a little girl.”

Roche opened his mouth but, before he could say anything, the thunder of hooves arrived from the road. He sprang to his feet, longsword leaving its scabbard, and peered from behind a tree. A lone rider galloping from Vizima. The horse was wheezing, reaching its limit. The rider, clad in silver and black, kept pushing the horse and looked behind him. Roche nodded at Yennefer as she hid behind another tree. The sorceress muttered.

“ _Voe’rle._ ”

The horse suddenly stopped wheezing and the drumming of hooves turned into a panicked scream as Ralf flew over his frozen mount. The soldier landed with a heavy thud, gasping for air as Roche darted towards him.

“You better catch your breath,” said the lieutenant as he tied the soldier’s hands behind his back, “because you have some explaining to do, traitor.”

More riders arrived while Roche pushed the prisoner against a tree at the side of the road. Leading them was Ducat, eyes bright with excitement.

“Another welcome surprise,” the spy said as he dismounted. “We’ll have to get the rack ready.”

But Roche had already started his particular interrogatory.

“Who are you working for?” The lieutenant said, pressing a dagger against Ralf’s neck. “Nilfgaard? Speak!”

Ralf laughed bitterly, the wind whipping his chestnut curls across his face.

“I did everything for Temeria.”

“You murdered a royal advisor.”

“Segelin was the only traitor, not me. I did not conspire with nonhuman scum.”

Yennefer felt her temples throbbing with a burning question. She made her way towards the prisoner.

“Who is _Wolf_?” The sorceress asked with a cold voice. “Who wrote that letter?”

“I wrote it as I was told. Segelin trusted a mutant freak so much that he went alone into an abandoned store. That alone proves he was a traitor. So he got what he deserved. And that white-haired butcher will get it too.”

Violet eyes flashed. A stiletto left its sheath. The wind blew stronger.

“Who told you to do it?”

Ralf’s only answer was a wide, defiant smile.

“Do you have any idea what you have got yourself into?” Yennefer asked, with a tremble in her voice. “Who told you to do it?”

The sorceress tapped into Ralf’s thoughts. She saw a figure under a cloak looking at her with dark, damp eyes. His narrow lips moved and she focused completely on them. She managed to catch a word. _Geralt._

A commotion brought her back to her body. She saw Ralf tumbling to the ground with a bloody arrowhead protruding from his throat. She heard groans and screams around her. And a few whistles in the now still air. She spread out her arms and shouted.

“ _Ess quan!_ ”

The whistles turned into a low hum. Three arrows floated in front of the group, moving towards them very slowly. Arms still extended, Yennefer looked around her. Ralf had stopped moving and two soldiers were bleeding out on the ground with arrows sticking out of their chests. Roche, Ducat and the rest of the soldiers had drawn out their weapons, their desperate eyes searching along the line of trees on the other side of the road. _Where are they?_ The sorceress heard bowstrings being drawn. _Fuck_. Keeping her eyes on the tree line, she threw her arms forward. The floating arrows turned and flew back to the trees, where shadows suddenly moved behind trees. _There you are._ Without giving them time to draw their bows again, Yennefer bolted towards them. She heard Roche’s voice, suddenly very far away.

“Charge!”

The sorceress had almost reached the tree line. She saw three hooded figures stepping out from behind trees, drawing steel. Without slowing down, she flicked her wrist and the neck of the one in the middle twisted grotesquely with a loud snap. Taking advantage of the second of confusion, she jumped at the figure on the left and slashed its throat. The hood fell as the stranger collapsed and she saw a pointed ear. _An elf_.

Immediately, the third figure jumped at her. The sorceress ducked under the hissing blade and slashed from below. The attacker dodged a fraction of a second too late and the stiletto left a red mark across his thigh. It was only a superficial cut, however, since he managed to run before the sorceress could get up or the Temerians could catch him. He shouted.

“Rience!”

Yennefer heard the pain in his voice, sending a pang of satisfaction through her as she darted behind him.

“Rience, wait!”

A whirling portal appeared ahead of them and Yennefer saw a fourth figure jumping through it. A moment later, her prey crossed it too. A second before she reached it, she heard Roche screaming behind her.

“Yennefer, wait!”

And she dove headfirst into the portal.

* * *

_“Ard’ichaer_!” Yennefer shouted as she fell to her knees at the other side of the portal.

The lightning bolt shot from her hands stopped the blade that was falling upon her, sending its wielder flying to the other side of the room. The sorceress looked around her while she recovered her breath. She was in some sort of study, framed by large bookshelves. One of them had fallen over her attacker, who was trying to free himself. Yennefer heard hurried steps and people shouting to her left.

“They’ve crossed! Burn everything!”

The sorceress ran to a door on her left and burst it open, revealing a long corridor filled with rich tapestries. A sudden flash of light blinded her for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, a fire was consuming one of the tapestries voraciously, throwing a veil of smoke over the corridor.

_“Bloede Dh’oine_! Open that portal already!”

Yennefer ran along the corridor, following the voices and the trail of fire. She felt the smoke getting thicker with every stride. The voices disappeared under the roaring fire. Disoriented, the sorceress slowed down. Her skin burned. She was gasping for air. _Come on._ She felt the metallic taste of blood dripping from her nose. _Focus._ She noticed a strong source of magic somewhere ahead of her. As she started walking towards it, the source pulled stronger with each step. She drew on it slowly and started to feel better.

“ _Gwynt gláeddyv_!”

A blast of wind shot from her hands, sweeping the smoke and sending hundreds of embers into the air. Behind them, at the end of the corridor, Yennefer saw them. A group of elves surrounding a hooded man biting a flower.

_“Vond agwethil.”_

Yennefer recognized his voice. It belonged to the man she had seen inside Ralf’s thoughts. The same voice that had said _Geralt_. Her hand clenched the hilt of her stiletto and the pain left her knees, her hands and her head, focusing on a single point in her chest. But when she was just about to bolt towards them, something heavy fell over her and pinned her to the ground.

“I have her!” The man shouted. “Isengrim!”

Yennefer watched helplessly as the hooded man and the elves started crossing a swirling portal. One of the elves turned towards them.

“Isengrim!” The man repeated. “I have her, wait!”

Yennefer took advantage of the moment and swung her stiletto backwards, lodging it deeply into the man’s belly. His grip weakened and she pushed him off her. But when she turned her head again towards the end of the corridor, the portal had disappeared, and with it, the last elf.

“Fuck!” Yennefer howled.

The sorceress knew the portal would not leave any trace but she still felt the walls collapsing over her when she confirmed it. The assassins could be anywhere now. Geralt was in danger and she had no way of knowing where he was. Or Triss or the mysterious girl, for that matter. She had only managed to leave a few more corpses behind her and by now, the whole network supporting the assassins would be on full alert. Another target on her back she could take. But the thought of putting Geralt or Triss in more danger was unbearable.

She heard a groan behind her over the roar of the flames getting closer. She approached the hooded figure lying on the ground, trying in vain to stop the fatal bleeding. Her stiletto was stuck in his belly and he also carried its mark across his thigh.

“They… They abandoned me,” he whimpered.

The sorceress retired the hood, revealing a two large, almond-shaped, unmistakably elven eyes in a young face. But to her surprise, his ears were completely human.

“You’re a half-elf,” she said, surprised.

“Wasn’t good enough for them,” he cried. “A city rat who barely knows a handful of words in Elder. Fool enough to sacrifice himself for them. Come on, human. End this already.”

“My father was a half-elf, too. He died in the Great Cleansing.”

“Then you must know it. There can be no peace with those savages. And us, mixed-bloods? Well, you saw it. We can lie to ourselves for a while, but in the end neither side trusts us. Our blood is tainted. Our existence, too risky.”

“Another rebellion?” Yennefer asked. “It’s hopeless, it will be a massacre. But there was a human sorcerer with you. Who is he?”

“His name is Rience,” the half-elf said with effort. “I don’t know anything else, they wouldn’t trust me.”

“What do they want? Why did they kill Segelin and that soldier?”

“Rience wanted information from Segelin. I heard they used some soldiers to get to him. I—”

The man coughed and a stream of blood fell from his mouth. The flames were getting closer, devouring everything standing in their way.

“Listen,” Yennefer said. “Did they say anything about a witcher? His—”

Loud knocks on a door nearby interrupted her.

“Open! In the name of Mayor Baldwin of Aldersberg, open the door!”

More people started banging on the door. The smoke coming from the other side of the corridor made Yennefer and the wounded half-elf cough. The sorceress got closer to him.

“His name is Geralt. Did you look for him anywhere else?”

The only answer was a vacant stare. Yennefer made her way into his mind. She saw flames. But she was no longer in the corridor in Aldersberg. A cottage was burning among screams. She saw the same elves she had just seen in the corridor, blades in hand, dragging a woman and a young man. A man with a thick grey beard pleaded for their lives.

_“Have mercy, please! I swear I don’t know anything else.”_

Far away, Yennefer heard a door blasting open and men shouting. She knew she only had a second and the procedure was extremely dangerous, and in the few successful cases, wildly imprecise. But she also knew that the bond was strong.

The sorceress followed the dying half-elf’s last thought and vanished from the hellish corridor at the mansion in Aldersberg.

* * *

The ground was cool. It smelled of damp earth and grass. The wet undergrowth felt like a balm against Yennefer’s scorched and bruised skin. _This is nice, for a change. Almost feels like… home._

The sorceress raised her head slowly. She was in the middle of a dense pine forest. The sun’s rays filtered through the branches, glinting off the drops of water. It was a beautiful scene. But where was she?

Yennefer got up. Her knees hurt like hell and her whole body protested, but she let the forest fragrance refresh her and began walking along a track. She did not have to walk long before finding a clearing. But when she was almost at the tree line, the sound of hooves and voices nearby stopped her in her tracks. It was clearly not Common Speech. Some words reminded her of the Elder Speech used by the group of assassin elves. But the long-drawn-out syllables ruled out that option.

“Nilfgaardian,” the sorceress whispered under her breath.

She waited until the voices disappeared and stepped into the clearing. Her heart nearly stopped. A huge pile of blackened logs and ash stood in the middle of the clearing. She went around it and confirmed her first impression: here stood the cottage she had seen going up in flames in the half-elf’s thoughts.

Over one of the charred logs stood a small bird. Its blue and green feathers glistened in the last rays of the sun. The bird took off suddenly, alerted by a squeaking sound nearby. Yennefer continued her way around the ruins and found an old man drawing water from a well. The sorceress tried to dust off her Nilfgaardian.

“ _Squ— squass’me,_ ” she started.

The man jumped and dropped his bucket.

“What in— Hah, you scared me, lady. You’re not Nilfgaardian, are you?” The man said, with a thick accent.

“Me? Gods, no. But you… You speak Common,” she said, surprised.

“Of course I speak Common,” the man said, offended, while he went on drawing water from the well. “These Black Cloaks can go around flailing their swords but I’m not going to start speaking that babble of theirs anytime soon. Me family has plowed this earth for kings from Temeria, Rivia, Sodden and Cintra. It’s always the same, they come with their armies, burning and plundering, they congratulate us for our liberation and off they go. The only difference is the tax collector that comes every year. Hah, sometimes it’s the same one. So we go on plowing until the next liberation.”

“Temeria, Rivia, Sodden and Cintra,” the sorceress muttered. “We have to be near Sodden Hill, then.”

“What, did you fall from the sky?” The man laughed. “Yes, you are in Riverdell. Or the Imperial Province of Transriver, as they call it now. The Hill is a few miles away. We could even see the Black Cloaks’ fireballs from that battle from ‘ere.”

“Was this Nilfgaard, too?” Yennefer said, gesturing towards the ruins.

The old man left the filled bucket heavily on the ground and sighed.

“I wish I knew. This was Old Yurga’s home. Lovely family, it’s a damned shame.”

“What happened?”

“It was a few weeks after the battle, when the Black Cloaks had already left a garrison near here. They say some cloaked men appeared out of nowhere and asked around about a white-haired witcher and a girl. Are you alright, me lady? You scared me for a moment there. Well, someone must’ve told ‘em because they came here. And they… It’s not right, you know? Yurga and Zola helped me when me sons died in Hochebuz. They were always getting in trouble helping people around. And when the bad times come, when the lords decide to go killing, the good ones are the first to go. And their young lad… It’s a shame.”

“I’m so sorry,” said the sorceress as she put her hand on his shoulder. “You said that someone must have told them. What exactly?”

The old man looked at her hand. And then he stared at her face for a while.

“Your hands are burned, lady. And you got blood on your face.”

“I—”

“They must be important to you. Alright. Zola told me she found a girl in the reeds by the river. Something bad happened there. Men ripped to pieces, impaled high on trees. And in the center of it all, a young girl without a scratch. But Zola could tell she must’ve lived through something horrible. Zola brought her here to take care of her. And then the strangest thing happened. Yurga came back home with a wounded witcher that had saved his life. And this witcher and this girl knew each other somehow. Zola said the girl changed completely; she saw hope in her eyes. And she would never leave the witcher’s side. They left soon after.”

“It sounds like… destiny.”

“Right. You don’t forget stuff like that. In these times, when everyone’s losing people, finding each other… Can I ask you something, lady?”

“Of course, tell me.”

“If you know them, can you make sure they’re alright?”

The sorceress looked the old man in the eyes and squeezed his shoulder.

“I will.”

“Good,” the man smiled. “At the end of that trail there you’ll reach a village by the river without bumping into any guards. They have a ferryboat there.”

“Thank you,” said the sorceress. “Truly.”

Yennefer set off on the trail. She produced a small light that floated in front of her, illuminating her path among the dark forest.

_At Sodden Hill, I thought life had no more to give. I thought I could put a worthy ending to my story. But life, destiny or whatever you call it didn’t grant me that. Because life is not like the stories. Stories end, you see the characters for the last time at the end of their journey and they stay in your memories like that forever. But I… I don’t want this to end now. I don’t want to be turned into a marble statue, a flawless image frozen in time that can’t talk, touch, or feel. I want to feel it all. I want what was taken from me a long time ago, what I’ve always wanted. No matter what gets in the way, no matter who threatens you, I will find you before they do. At the end of this road, I will find you. Both._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for your patience. Although it took some time to finish it, I'm proud of how it came together in the end. As always, I really appreciate your comments and feedback that allow me to keep learning. Thank you!
> 
> Also, if you are interested, here you have a glossary of Elder Speech terms I used in this chapter. Some come from the books, some from the TV show and some are my own.
> 
> Voe’rle: Stop.  
> Ess quan: Be still.  
> Ard’ichaer: Lightning.  
> Bloede Dh’oine: Damned human.  
> Gwynt gláeddyv: Wind sword.  
> Vond agwethil: Open the door.  
> Squass’me: Excuse me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri meets the witchers and starts her training at Kaer Morhen, Geralt struggles with his new role and unexpected troubles demand outside help.

“Ciri, stop right there!”

The girl brought her horse to a halt some fifty yards ahead of Geralt. “You’re such an old man!” She laughed. “Why do you hate fun?”

“I am an old man,” he said as he caught up with her. “But wait until you see Vesemir.”

Ciri spotted a half-smile on the witcher’s face as he overtook her.

“Well, if he raised you, he must be even more boring than you.”

Geralt chuckled. “When I ride into a new town, kids not much younger than you stare at me with their mouths open. The very bravest among them even dare ask me about my exciting life hunting monsters.”

“I have seen through you already. You’re just a boring old man hiding beneath that armor.”

“You’re really hurting my pride, Ciri. Don’t you have any mercy?”

“Not when you don’t even let me run a little. Come on, I’m hungry! Can’t we go faster to the next town?”

Ciri put on her saddest face—to little effect on the white-haired witcher.

“You have dried meat in your pouch.”

“But it’s awful! We’ve been eating this shit for weeks.”

“Language. You don’t want Vesemir hear you say that. And yeah, this meat gets tiring pretty quickly. But we can’t stop at every tavern and risk someone recognizing us. Or someone remembering us when certain people come later asking for a certain rebellious, ashen-haired, green-eyed princess. Maybe it wouldn’t be so obvious if we had cut your hair short.”

Ciri stabbed him with an unambiguous look.

“But I see that’s still not an option,” the witcher added quickly. “Anyway, don’t worry too much, the next town is the last one before Kaer Morhen. Then it’s a couple more days and—”

A rider appeared out of a gully that descended from the nearby hills. He hastened his horse in their direction, looking nervously towards the hilltops.

“Good morning,” Geralt said.

The man stopped before them.

“Another one of you? Are you coming to help?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a man-eater around here. I just guided one of your kind to the place where it attacked yesterday.”

“What, who—”

“I’m not staying here!” The man hurried his horse. “Go up the gully and you’ll find him. Or what’s left of him!”

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed as he dismounted Roach.

Ciri noticed then a shadow on the ground. At first, she thought it was just a cloud. But as it grew steadily, moving towards the rider, she felt something was off.

“Geralt…”

She raised her head and stared in disbelief. A beast that looked like it had jumped out of a tapestry crossed the sky, piercing the cold morning air with a horrifying shriek. Folding its monstrous, bat-like wings, the creature dived towards the rider, quickly closing the distance despite the man’s desperate efforts.

“Ciri, hold Roach!” Geralt said as he unsheathed his silver sword.

Ahead of them, rider and horse fell to the ground. The animal neighed when the monster plunged its claws deep into its belly. The man wheezed as the fangs pierced his throat mercilessly. The man-eater stood on top of them, raising its bloodied head with an almost royal look. The impression quickly vanished when Ciri noticed its hideous face crowned by two long horns. It was then that the girl saw a figure nimbly descending from the hillside, sword in hand.

Before it could get close, the monster lashed with its long scorpion tail in a semi-circle. Ciri looked at the man’s face as he stopped, wielding his sword before him. A long, ugly scar crossed half of his face. The beast must have been fixated on the man, too, since it did not notice Geralt approaching it from behind. With a quick pirouette, the witcher slashed its left wing. The man-eater roared and writhed. Instead of trying to dodge the tail coming at him, Geralt crossed his wrists, stopping the sting amidst an explosion of sparks and blood.

_It must be one of his witcher tricks_ , Ciri thought as the two men circled around the beast, its wounded wing preventing it from taking off again. Suddenly, as if they were reading each other’s thoughts, the two men attacked at the same time. But the monster was still very much alive, fending off the men with a lash of its tail, a dodge and a counterattack.

From her vantage point, Ciri watched the fight with fascination. The girl had seen skilled warriors dueling in tournaments back in Cintra but this was completely different. Instead of the slow movements of plate-armored knights wielding heavy maces, the nimble jumps, spins and dodges of the two seamlessly coordinated men resembled more of a court dance. The man-eater started moving more slowly as the dark blood spilling from its left wing formed puddles on the ground. Noticing this, Geralt and the scarred man got closer to the beast.

The end of the fight was quick. In the blink of an eye, the scarred man bisected the monster’s tail and Geralt sliced off one of its legs. The other man then jumped on top of the beast and buried his sword up to the hilt, instantly killing the monster.

The man with the scar landed on the ground and sheathed his sword into the scabbard strapped to his back. The witchers wrapped their arms around each other in a quick, tight embrace.

“Still sharp, Wolf.”

“It’s either sharp or dead, Eskel.”

“As Vesemir always says. Are you going to winter in Kaer Morhen too?”

“Yes”—Geralt looked at Ciri—“ _We_ are.”

“You’re bringing a boy? It’s been a long time.”

“Not a boy,” Geralt said while Ciri approached them, pulling back her hood. “This is Ciri.”

“Oh. Forgive me, Ciri. Geralt, are you sure Kaer Morhen is the right place for her?”

“As long as your food is better than the dried shit we’ve been eating,” Ciri answered for him, “I’ll put up with you.”

* * *

“Again!”

Ciri wiped the sweat off her forehead with her wrist and looked at her feet, one in front of the other, standing on a narrow beam four feet off the ground. She held the wooden sword in front of her, keeping perfect balance.

“Now!”

The girl took two quick steps and swung the sword with all her might against the target—a leather sack roughly shaped as a person.

“Way too high. We’re aiming for the carotid artery. You remember where it is, right?”

“I’m not stupid, Coën.”

The young witcher smiled at her from below, his yellow-green eyes glinting playfully against his bronze skin. Both outsiders—Coën came from the School of the Griffin in Poviss—they had connected with each other from the start. Besides, Eskel was too calm for the energetic girl, Vesemir could be too protective and Lambert… Well, Lambert was insufferable.

“That’s what I thought,” Coën said. “Again, come on.”

Ciri returned to the starting position. She glanced from the corner of her eyes at the opposite side of Kaer Morhen’s courtyard. Geralt had said he would be sharpening swords but every time the girl looked at him, he was staring into the distance through a wide gap in the ruined wall. The girl focused back on the target and attacked.

“No, no, this time you got too close. Shorter steps. If you get that close to a good swordsman, they’ll hack you to pieces before you swing.”

“Ugh.”

“Come on, you were begging all day for sword practice.”

“Because you have me all day practicing stances!”

“What’s so bad about it? It’s just like learning to dance. Didn’t they teach you in court?”

“Oh, they did,” Ciri scowled at him. “And I hated it.”

“Don’t look at me like that with a sword in your hand,” laughed Coën as he approached her. “Hold the sword in front of you. See, your grip is wrong. You have to hold it… like this. Try again.”

Ciri got into position, took a deep breath and tried again.

“Better!” Coën patted her shin. “Your steps were fine, the strike was alright. But you have to swing faster or your enemy will parry easily. Again!”

The girl took a moment. She re-tightened her ponytail, stretched her arms and looked at the leather sack. There was a wrinkle in its surface that seemed familiar, almost like a frown staring at her above a pair of sharp cheekbones. She saw a dark helmet, crowned by two feathered wings. Cold sweat trickled down her back. But Ciri tightened the grip on her sword and fire burnt through her.

“Great! You did it perfectly! You have to show that to Geralt. Hey, are you alright? Ciri!”

Ciri felt the sword leaving her hand. She looked at it, slowly falling towards the ground. But the ground was further and further, and the sword became so small it disappeared from her sight. A sudden gust of cold wind stung her face and darkness surrounded her. Somehow, the girl knew she was standing on the same spot of the witchers’ keep. She then saw lights at the other side of the courtyard where Geralt had been sitting just a moment ago—only this time the wall was no longer in ruins. The air grew warmer and she was relieved to hear distant voices. But as the voices grew nearer, she recognized something unpleasant among them.

The torches were close. The stench of smoke, sweat and blood inundated the courtyard. An endless tide of people marched towards her. Ciri saw their eyes and shivered. They all glimmered with hate. Hate and bloodlust.

“Good men of Kaedwen!”

She noticed the clubs, the axes, the pitchforks. Stained with blood.

“You have done the hardest part. You must finish the job now!”

She heard sobs beside her. A group of kids. Some cowering in fear, some standing defiantly with short swords in their hands.

“To exterminate the pack one must kill every wolf, even the pups!”

Only two wounded witchers stood between the mob and the boys.

“You want to end this plague of mutants and freaks?”

A roar answered. Geralt and Coën looked back at her.

“Then have no mercy.”

* * *

The old man was sitting at an austere table. Surrounded by piles of books and parchments, he pored over the pages of a leather-bound volume. With each page he turned, a small cloud of dust took off, barely illuminated by a dying candle. The man was so focused on the book he barely heard the light steps approaching.

“ _Across the Veil_ ,” said the voice behind him. “By Sebille Tilly, if I’m not mistaken.”

“One of the most influential books on the arts of revelations, prophecies and dreams, or so they say. Although poor Sebille’s prose wasn’t the lightest, I was just about to go from theory to practice on this dreams chapter. How is she, Geralt?”

“She just woke up. Fine, just a bit agitated. The vision she had…”

“What?”

“You know she called out to Coën and me. What she described, Vesemir… It must be the Fall of Kaer Morhen.”

A tense silence followed, finally interrupted by a sigh from Vesemir.

“And you both were in the vision, I suppose.”

“Ciri saw us at the courtyard, trying to protect a group of kids from the mob.”

“That happened almost a century ago, how would you…? I was one of the first to arrive here after the Fall. We saw the bodies, what remained of them. And I’ll never forget it, there was a group of students there, lying on the courtyard. I don’t know a damned thing about these visions of the past and the future, I’m just a fencing instructor. But I can’t help but feel this is bigger than Kaer Morhen, bigger than us.”

“I know. And she should be here by now. If she can’t help her… I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even believe in destiny before finding her, what am I supposed to do with this? I don’t care about the meaning of the visions, I just want her to be safe. And I know enough about mediums and Sources to realize someone must teach her to control her power before she hurts herself or someone else.”

Vesemir stood up and put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“You said you trust her. She’s helped you before. She’ll help us now.”

Geralt squeezed Vesemir’s hand and nodded. “When I was hurt in Sodden, I don’t know if it was a fever dream but… I saw my mother. Visenna. She didn’t answer my questions but the look in her eyes was enough. Her silences were enough. She abandoned me because her life wasn’t fit for a child. She must have tried, I know that, but in the end it wasn’t enough. Look at us, what are we supposed to do with her? You took me, you trained and raised me, and I’m grateful for that. I would be dead otherwise. But I don’t want this for her. The danger, the hate, the loneliness of the Path.”

“Geralt. When I took you in, the School of the Wolf was in shatters. We were a ragtag collection of the few witchers lucky enough to be running errands far from here when the Fall happened. I had been on the Path, sure, but most of my life was here. I’d have never imagined I’d have to raise you, Eskel and Lambert. I did my best. But you… You shared the table with kings. You took impossible choices and bore the consequences. You saved a cursed princess and you protected the oppressed. You have friends among the elves, the dwarves, the dryads and the sorceresses. You are so much more ready for this than I ever was. And most important of all, you saved this girl. Destiny has brought you together for a reason. And I see how you look at her. You’re not Visenna, Geralt. You’re not me. And you’re not alone.”

“I just… Every night I close my eyes and I see Yen. I wish she were here. Because Ciri and I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for her. And I don’t even know if she’s alive… I must do this for Ciri—but also for her. Thank you, Vesemir. For everything.”

* * *

A few weeks passed since the incident in the courtyard. Ciri continued to train without experiencing more trances but her nights were becoming more and more restless. She usually woke up agitated in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. Strangely, she didn’t remember anything about her dreams after the incident, which did not make it any easier for her. And the lack of sleep was starting to affect her during the day.

“Ciri! Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

Geralt sighed. “Another bad night?”

Ciri yawned and nodded.

”Those damned nightmares,” Geralt said. “And this book is not helping. Too much dry theory. Let’s see… Do you see that shield over there, leaning on the wall? Well, this is the first Sign every witcher learns—Aard.”

Ciri saw the witcher’s fingers twisting and forming a strange gesture in front of him. An instant later, flames roared in a nearby hearth, an empty sack flew to the other side of the room and the shield fell with a heavy thud.

“Oh,” she gasped. “It’s like the trick you did with the manticore.”

“That was Heliotrop. Useful against a sudden attack. But it’s more advanced. Let’s focus on Aard, it’s the easiest Sign. You only need two things to do it. First of all, the gesture. Open your right hand. This finger… here. Bend this one… like that. And now extend these. Good. You can practice the full gesture now.”

“Aha! Not too hard. But why is it not working?”

“The second thing you need is concentration. You have to focus on what you want to achieve.”

“Alright. I want to knock that basket off that chair.”

“Good. You have to see in your mind how you’re going to do it. Close your eyes. Can you see it?”

“Mhm.”

“Then do the Sign.”

Ciri opened her eyes, arranged her hand forming the Sign of Aard and stretched the arm forward. But nothing happened. She tried again, with the same result. And again.

“It’s alright, Ciri. Sometimes it’s hard at the beginning. Remember, close your eyes. Focus. And… Don’t worry, I’ll do it again for you. Remember, you have to picture yourself doing it. Like this!”

The basket flew across the room.

“That’s what I’m doing! And I didn’t even moved it a bit. There’s no point, I’m blocked. I can’t do a simple Sign, I can’t control my visions and I can’t even sleep. It’s only getting worse. And I don’t see why this Sign is worth the effort, you only made an empty basket fly for a few yards and the people pursuing us are a bit heavier than that.”

“Hey, I know this is frustrating. But we’ll get through this, you’ll see. And Aard is very useful, I was just showing you how to do it. Besides, Signs can be intensified in some ways.”

“How?”

“Witchers have potions. Certain preparations can improve reflexes, build up stamina or accelerate healing processes. And strengthen the Signs too. But don’t get any ideas, a witcher potion would kill you on the spot. Only those who pass the Trial of the Grasses can bear the toxins and you know that’s not an option.”

“Then what’s the point of learning it?”

“There are other ways of intensifying Signs and magic in general. What you did that night in Cintra when you screamed… When you are pushed to your limits, your body and mind react differently.”

“So this will only be useful when I’m about to die?”

“Well, you can also provoke those reactions. In the end, what you need are heightened emotions. That stuff is not written in witcher books, I learned it from Yennefer. And I can tell you, it works.”

“Oh. Mmm. But how do you—”

The girl stopped when she saw the strange expression in Geralt’s face. The witcher cleared his throat. For an awkwardly long time.

“Anyways,” he continued. “We’ll get to that when you learn the Signs.”

The witcher was interrupted by hurried steps coming from the corridor. A smug face framed by rebellious red curls appeared from the doorway.

“Hey, you two! We have a visitor and I think you both know her. Come with me.”

Geralt and Ciri followed Lambert through the corridors of the eastern wing, making their way to the entrance hall of the old keep.

“Geralt, I knew you were fond of a certain sorceress. But I thought her hair was black. So tell me, does she enchant her hair when she gets bored or is this a different one?”

“Lambert.” Geralt looked at him with a stone face. “Stop.”

The witchers and the girl crossed the last doorway and arrived at the entrance hall. They almost bumped into Coën, coming from the stable laden with saddlebags. Behind him, among a sea of chestnut locks, a familiar face was nodding and smiling at something Eskel was saying.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Triss,” Geralt said.

“Greetings, Geralt. You keep this castle of yours well hidden, I almost froze to death finding my way here.” She grabbed a wooden mug Vesemir brought to her and drank. “Now that’s better. Fiona! Glad to see you again, you look different. Come here, let me see you.”

“Fiona?” Lambert laughed. “I think you got the wrong girl, this here is Ciri.”

Triss looked at Lambert with a raised brow. Then at Geralt. She left the mug in Ciri’s hands and crossed her arms.

“We couldn’t take risks.” Geralt said. “There will be time to explain everything, but yes—her real name is Ciri.”

“You witchers are always full of surprises. Well, I have news for you too, Geralt.”

The sorceress noticed his suddenly blanching face and hesitated. Ciri saw him clenching his fists.

“Say it,” the witcher demanded.

“Yennefer is alive. We found her in Tor Lara, she portalled there from Sodden Hill somehow.”

Geralt closed his eyes and sighed deeply. The expression on his face was something Ciri had never seen before. She saw relief, regret and hope. Her throat dried up all of a sudden and she drank from the mug. For a moment, she did not even notice the strange taste. Not until Triss looked at her with her mouth open.

“Ciri, that’s not for—”

The girl felt a freezing wind stinging her face and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was floating close to the high ceiling of the hall. She saw Geralt, Triss, Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert below. Coën came back to the hall in that moment too. She saw the fear in their eyes. And she heard a metallic, unpleasant voice. It took a moment for her to realize her lips were moving and the voice came from within her.

“Verily I say unto you, the era of the Wolf’s Blizzard is nigh! The sword and the ax will flood the earth with hate and discord for it will be the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt! Beware, you two, who will fall in this struggle as your kind fell here before. Two teeth will kill the Griffin! Three teeth will slay the Wolf! Past and future converge now, the serpent sinks its fangs in its own tail. The world will end amid the frost and begin anew from the seed of Hen Ichaer. Watered with the Elder and the Altered Blood, the seed will not sprout but burst into flame! Watch for the signs! You will know it is time when the rivers run red with the Blood of Elves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This chapter took me longer than I thought, with the change of setting in the fic and all the stuff happening in the world. I hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer follows the conspiracy trail while Ciri struggles with her power in Kaer Morhen, forcing Geralt to take a life-changing decision

The moon shone bright in the sky as the smell of beer and the sway of song filled the streets of Oxenfurt. The university town was renowned for its never-ending state of festivity—it was said that anyone could get drunk any day at any time—but the occasion was special. It was the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the festival of the patroness of fertility, abundance and love—Melitele, the goddess in three forms. The form revered by the students and academics, especially during this festivity, was not the Mother or the Crone, but the young Maiden. Tavern walls trembled with chants and dances celebrating youth and beauty. The crowds packing the streets moved almost in unison like relentless waves. Everyone seemed to be possessed by a fever. Well, almost everyone.

A slender figure covered in a dark hood made its way through the less filled sides of the streets. Though it turned and dodged the crowd, its direction was unmistakable—to the north of the city, towards the docks. As the smell of beer and roast meat turned into the pungent stench of fish, the streets became less crowded and one could even hear the Pontar river.

The docks were almost deserted at that time of the night, except for the few city guards grudgingly patrolling the streets. One could hear their self-pitying laments from afar. The hooded figure easily avoided them by turning into an alley, arriving not long after at the back of a small warehouse by the waterfront. Crouching beneath a window, it waited for a moment. The light leaking through the shutters revealed a rebellious lock of raven black hair sticking out from under the hood. Someone was screaming inside. The figure turned suddenly towards a side door and removed a velvet glove. Pale fingers moved deftly as narrow lips muttered an incantation and a dark smoke began to rise and take form.

If by chance one of the students celebrating Melitele had looked at the scene then, they would have stopped drinking for a long time. Two identical figures stood side by side by the door of the warehouse. The first of them opened the door quietly with one hand, moonlight glinting in the slender blade held in its other hand.

As soon as the second figure crossed the threshold, a man jumped at it from behind the door. He slashed frantically with his knife but only managed to tear wisps of smoke from it. When he realized, it was already too late. A stiletto flashed in the night. The figure behind the man extracted the blade from his neck, painting the door crimson red. Men shouted inside the warehouse. Blades whistled and clanged. Window shutters burst, splinters flew in every direction and two men escaped through the main door. Not far behind them, a now unhooded storm of raven-black locks shot lightning from her fingers. One of the men fell and the other stopped just in time to shield himself. A deafening crack shook the river waters as thunderbolts gnawed the magical barrier. The mage groaned. The barrier was starting to vanish and some bolts reached him.

Behind the mage and the man getting up from the ground, the air swirled violently. A portal took shape. The sorceress gasped and the lightning intensified. She felt the energy powering up the portal. It was not coming from the docks but from somewhere so far away that she could not identify it.

“You won’t escape this time!” Her voice rose over the thunder.

The second man jumped at her swinging a short, curved sword. The sorceress dodged him in the last second and the air fell silent for a moment, free from thunder. Before the man could turn, she stabbed him in the back and pushed him into the river. She saw the mage dashing towards the portal and ran towards him, her boots slapping on the wet pavement. But it was too late. The mage crossed into the other side and the portal started to disappear. The raven-haired sorceress hesitated for a moment. Then she raised her hands and sent a wave of fire into the dying portal before it vanished.

The Pontar murmured softly. The sorceress caught her breath and went back into the warehouse. When she left it, a man dressed in vibrant blue walked beside her, rubbing his hands.

“Do you know how much these fingers are worth?” He said.

“I suppose someone could pay a lot of crowns to break them after hearing you play the same song for the hundredth time.”

“Witty as always, Yennefer.”

“I listened to your songs last night, Jaskier. This morning, too. People request that ballad about the witcher and the sorceress a lot.”

“Yeah, about that—”

“I’m glad at least one of us takes some benefit from our encounters. But I have another request—stop mentioning his child of destiny.”

“Oh, definitely. These gentlemen were a bit too interested in her.”

“They won’t be asking anymore. Except for their leader—I couldn’t catch that bastard Rience but I bet the fire I sent him has left a mark.” The sorceress stopped walking along the waterfront and looked around. “How do you know about the girl? Have you seen them?”

“Geralt? Not since the dragon hunt. But I was there in Cintra when the Law of Surprise was invoked.”

“In Cintra?” The sorceress raised her eyebrows.

“Did you think I’d use the whole story for just one song? No, that’s for the next ballad I’m writing—” The bard looked at her piercing violet eyes. “Was. The ballad I was writing.”

“Let it stay unwritten.”

Jaskier nodded. “What happened in Cintra—it was fourteen years ago. It would’ve been the stuff of legend but the story didn’t spread that far. The nobles were scared of angering Queen Calanthe.”

“To the point, bard.”

“Well, the point is Geralt invoked the Law of Surprise on Princess Pavetta’s unborn child.”

A profanity that would make a dwarf blush escaped the sorceress lips. “Let’s find a quiet place. This city is filled with spies.”

The sound of singing and dancing came from the heart of the university city. The sorceress and the bard walked along an empty street as a grey owl glided silently over their heads.

* * *

Ciri felt something cool on her forehead. Expert hands descended to her neck and checked her pulse. She stretched her sore legs and groaned.

“Ciri,” a voice called softly. “Can you hear me?”

Ciri opened her eyes slowly and a friendly face took form before her. Triss smiled faintly, her eyes surrounded by dark circles.

“Triss. Where’s Geralt?”

“I convinced him to go get some sleep a while ago,” the sorceress said. “He wouldn’t leave your side.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost two days. We were worried at first, your temperature rose very quickly. But we got it under control and you were improving quite nicely until now. You grew agitated and started talking nonsense, I thought the fever had returned.”

“It was like a dream,” Ciri said, pressing her temples with her fingers. “I saw a dock at night. There was… someone fighting. Blood flowing into the sea and fire reflecting on its surface. I can’t remember anything else. But what happened to me before? Another vision?”

Triss nodded and winced. “You drank from the cup of vodka Vesemir brought me. I didn’t imagine you would drink from it or that it would trigger a vision but I should’ve warned you. It awoke the power inside you. You are a Source, Ciri, that’s clear. But the way you react to external stimuli is very unusual. Utterly unpredictable. When I first saw you in Sodden Hill I didn’t sense any power in you. I suspected something when you started asking me about being a sorceress, so I emitted a magic impulse towards you, hoping to get a reply. Nothing. No reply, no resistance, no reaction of any kind. Magic completely ignored you and you followed suit. Granted I wasn’t completely recovered yet, but still—nothing.”

“I thought all Sources were like that. My mother…” Ciri bit her lip. “She died when I was little but people said that no one knew she was capable of magic until it got out of control.”

“I know Cintra banished all mages long ago but they kept druids in court. If she showed any signs, they surely would have noticed she was a Source.”

“Wait, you know—” Ciri felt her head throbbing. “How do you know, did Geralt tell you?”

“Geralt? Oh, he denied it to the point of absurdity but I already knew. On my way here from Aretuza, I paid a visit to an old friend in the royal court of Tretogor. She told me that every intelligence service was looking for this ashen haired princess from Cintra. Connecting the dots wasn’t difficult. But don’t worry, I won’t betray your secret. We have time to plan our next steps, the snow is closing the valley and we might not be able to leave until late March. Which also has its benefits—no one will be able to come here either. Meanwhile I will try to help you control your power.”

“Good. I need to continue my sword training without having these visions.”

“Your sword training?” Triss raised a brow. “I thought that was Geralt’s idea. You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

“But I want to!” Ciri remembered the winged helmet and her hand searched for her sword in vain under the blankets. “I need to train.”

“Well, if that’s what you want... I guess it can get boring here without anything else to do.”

“Worse than boring. You should’ve been here before I started training. Vesemir telling old story after old story, Lambert complaining about everything, Eskel complaining about Lambert, Coën egging them on and Geralt getting fed up and leaving the room. I’m doing them a favor by keeping them busy.”

Triss laughed. “Then I’m glad you want to continue training. For now, get some rest. We’ll have our first session as soon as you can get out of bed.”

* * *

Geralt served himself another bowl. While it wasn’t any delicacy, Eskel’s stew was much better than the inexplicable results of Lambert’s attempts at cooking. And it warmed him up, too. Kaer Morhen had not been fully repaired after its Fall and cold wind blew through the cracks in the main hall. In front of Geralt sat Vesemir, wiping the last of the stew from the bottom of his bowl with a piece of dark bread. Geralt chuckled to himself, recalling the look Yennefer gave him the first time she saw him eat soup. She had refused to keep sharing a bed with him until he had what she called _good manners at the table_. Though their relationship had been anything but stable, the rare habit of using cutlery remained with him.

To his side, Coën drank eagerly from his mug of ale and talked about the last events in the court of Lan Exeter. At another table, Lambert and Eskel played dice. From Lambert’s shouts and Eskel’s occasional jab, it was clear who was winning.

Triss stormed into the hall. “That’s it, I give up. I’ve tried everything—magic impulses, herb preparations, oneiromancy, hypnosis—I even gave her a sip of the same vodka that triggered her vision! Her episodes are completely unpredictable and once started, there is no way to get them under control. This night was my last hope—Midinváerne, the longest night of the year, time of death and the beginning of the new cicle. I can feel the air infused with magic! Well, here you have the results—nothing.“

Geralt left his spoon on the bowl and gritted his teeth. He didn’t say anything for a while. When he looked up again, everyone was staring at him.

“We have to find another solution. You said her episodes are not life-threatening for now.”

“She seems healthy enough to me,” Coën said. “She’s improving quickly with the sword and getting stronger with each passing day.”

“The episodes are not dangerous in themselves for now,” Triss answered. “The fevers she gets afterward are not worsening. But what if she has her next episode on top of the wall? Or jumping along the Killer Trail? Or wielding a sword?”

“Then what do you propose?” Geralt asked.

“Another opinion. There are many mages with far more experience in this matter. I’m sure they’ll find a solution.”

“Every king is looking for her. Are any of these mages you talk about not in the pay of a king? Or in need of their influence?”

“Well, there’s Aretuza.”

“Half of its staff fought at Sodden Hill, I’m not sure if I’d call them independent.”

“Stop it, Geralt!” Triss’ voice echoed in the hall. Not a whisper could be heard while the sorceress regained her composure. She looked hard at Geralt, her left hand trembling on her chest. “You know I stood on the Hill. Nearly lost my life for it. And I’ve been working for King Foltest for a long time. If you don’t trust me, I’ll leave as soon as the snow melts in the valley. It’s below you to be this cynic, you can’t possibly believe that crap.”

The witcher bit his lip and stared at his bowl.

“Geralt is sorry for his words,” Vesemir said. “The news you brought have understandably worried him, as they have us. And I see his concern—Ciri walking into the most famed Academy of Sorceresses of the North might set off some alarms. But perhaps there are some mages you can trust.”

Triss gave Geralt a meaningful look. “I don’t know if Yennefer has recovered from her wounds and Sources are not her specialty—she never intended to stay working for the Academy looking for new students. But she may be of help. Geralt, you talked with Tissaia at Sodden Hill. She’s an arch-mistress of magic and she just left her position as Rectoress of the Academy. She can help Ciri, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re just going to take her word for it?” Lambert asked. “I’ve always been curious about you sorceresses. You swear fealty to your Brotherhood and to your kings too. When you propose this plan, are you being loyal to your friend Geralt here and her child of destiny? To the Brotherhood? Or perhaps to Foltest?”

“Enough, Lambert.” Geralt said. “I’ve met Tissaia de Vries. I’ve seen her care about things other than ambition of power or pleasing kings.”

“And she’s not blindly loyal to the Brotherhood,” continued Triss. “She defied it by going to Sodden Hill. And Yennefer and I followed her into the battlefield.”

“Then it’s decided. But how can we contact her?”

“Well, you’re in luck. I brought my megascope with me.”

* * *

Tissaia held the polished diamond between her fingers and set it against a candle. The warm light passing through the gem split in innumerable beams of all the colors of the spectrum, painting angled shapes upon the four walls of the room. The arch-mistress turned the diamond and the shapes gleamed and spun across the walls.

"You came just in time, Yennefer. Someone is reaching out, though the pull is faint."

"They may be calling from far away. Or perhaps they only managed to cast a weak spell."

"That's what I fear. I haven't heard from Triss since she left Aretuza when you were recovering. Well, we shall find out. Help me set up the megascope."

The two sorceresses placed three oval mirrors upon metallic stands at regular intervals, forming a triangle in the center of the room. Tissaia fitted the diamond in a golden ring behind one of the mirrors and stood back. Beams of light linked the three mirrors, turning from a faint gold to a bluish gray. As the sorceresses elevated their voices in a hair-rising incantation, a mist rose in the center of the triangle.

The sorceresses finished the incantations and looked at the blurry figure taking form before them. A voice spoke faintly, as if from a great distance.

“Tissaia?”

“Triss!” The arch-mistress stepped forward. “Are you alright?”

The vague shape nodded. “I’m in a safe place. Where are you?“

“We are in Cidaris.”

“Wait, are you not alone?” The sharp image of Triss Merigold finally emerged from the mist, as if she really stood there in the same room.

“It’s good to see you again, Triss,” Yennefer said. “The last time was in a very different place.”

Triss looked away. “I know, Yenna.” She broke the tense silence with a fleeting smile. “But you look great! It’s wonderful how quickly we can cure our bodies—long before other scars can heal. What are you doing in Cidaris?”

“I came to pay a visit to King Ethain,” Tissaia said. “I left the Academy—for good. The truce between the kings stopped the bloodshed but chaos rumbles on. That’s why I’m working with Vilgefortz now to build a stronger alliance of the Northern Kingdoms. He was right in promoting the peace deal but if we turn our heads it will all fall apart. Sodden Hill was just a temporary setback for Nilfgaard—they are consolidating their new territories and when they’re ready no single kingdom will be able to stand against them.”

“I’m aware,” Triss said. “I stayed for a while in Tretogor after leaving Aretuza and I got caught up on the news. Philippa sends her regards, by the way. She told me she regrets not attending the Council on Aretuza but you know how it is in Redania—another peasant rebellion and some nobles trying to seize the moment.”

“We could have used her help in Sodden,” Yennefer said. “Conspiracies seem to spread everywhere these days. I went to Vizima looking for you and instead I found murder, plotting and a rebellion in the making. They murdered Lord Segelin.”

“Segelin? Fuck.”

”All the signs pointed in the same direction—Geralt and a girl. His child of destiny.” Her voice wavered. Tissaia stared at her wide-eyed. “They kidnapped and tortured a key advisor to Foltest—just for a clue about Geralt or the girl. I think you know something about this, Triss. Segelin’s last words before he bled out were a warning to you.“

“I’m with them, Yenna. With Geralt and the girl.”

“You… How?”

“When I met them at Sodden Hill, he told me to come here. To an old witchers keep, with some friends of his. He was worried about the girl. She’s a Source but I have seen none like her. When I first saw her I tried to sense her but no magic seemed to run through her. And now… She has episodes, she sees the past and foretells the future. And I can’t help her. I’ve tried everything I know with no result.”

“Unusual,” Tissaia said, “but they can help her in Aretuza. Margarita is in charge of the Academy now.”

“There’s a problem,” Triss said, “This girl… They’re all looking for her. She’s not just a Source, or Geralt’s child of destiny.”

“She’s Cirilla, the princess of Cintra,” Yennefer said.

“She survived the Slaughter?” Tissaia said with a furrowed brow. “Poor thing.”

“The assassins that were after her,” Yennefer said. “They were elves and half-elves, plotting a rebellion against humans. But they followed a human. A mage, I believe. One that knows the secret of the Feainnewedd flowers and has mastered it.”

Tissaia sighed. “Elves following a man that uses the product of their blood. You discovered the secret of the flowers a long time ago, from a certain student of Ban Ard.”

“Precisely. A disciple of Stregobor, who’s also shown a troubling obsession for young powerful women of high birth.”

“Falka, the Curse of the Black Sun… We have to protect Cirilla. Aretuza is too risky right now, even more if they know she’s a Source. We need time to discourage her persecutors.”

“She doesn’t have it,” Triss said. “The episodes haven’t stopped. If she can’t control them, they will get worse and then—”

“I’ll do it,” Yennefer said.

“What?”

“I’ll examine the girl. Tissaia, your task is too important to leave right now. I’ll try to help her—and we’ll buy some time. We just need a place.”

“The only pass to get to the keep is buried under the snow now,” Triss said.

“Then we’ll have to wait for spring—portals aren’t safe if they’re following us. But isolating her in a place like that will do her no good.”

“I agree. She needs a place to flourish, with people her age. Maybe… Geralt told me of a place in Ellander he knows well, the Temple of Melitele. New priestesses are trained there.”

“I know the place. He and I… have been there before. The Archpriestess is well-respected across the region, Ciri will be safe there. It’s set then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We are getting close to the reunion. As always, comments are really appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri leave Kaer Morhen and set out for the Temple of Melitele. On her journey there, Yennefer returns to a key place from her past where a new war is brewing.

The Blue Mountains loomed like silent giants over Kaer Morhen. Ciri huddled inside her fur coat, trying to keep the cold out. Despite spending all winter in the witchers keep, every time she climbed to the top of the walls, she felt the stinging wind in her bones like the first time. She sighed. Gazing down the valley, a glinting line revealed the course of the Gwenllech river, swollen by the snow melt. Soon she would be following the river southwards. Away from Kaer Morhen, from Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert, from the safety of the Blue Mountains. And back towards the South.

The mere thought brought back an old sense of unease, the urge to sharpen her hearing, to look for anything suspicious around her. _Everyone is looking for you. You can hide for a while, but how are you ever going to feel safe when they all want you? Your name, your claim to the throne of a forsaken kingdom, your blood. You can’t escape._

She clasped the battlement in front of her and recalled Calanthe’s words from her deathbed. _As in life, it is impossible always to be fully prepared for battle. Keep your sword close and keep moving._ Her ragged breaths slowly evened out. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned like a cornered beast.

“Hey,” Geralt said, “it’s just me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… thinking about the journey. It feels strange, going back South after everything.”

The witcher put his arm around her shoulders and stood beside her in silence for a while, staring into the distance. “I remember the first time I left Kaer Morhen. I was just as nervous as you.” The witcher smiled. “Vesemir took Eskel and me down the river to look for work. And we found some—a villager tormented by a curse. He claimed that every night someone knocked on his door. The ghost of his brother, who had frozen to death in the snow the previous winter.”

“Oh. What did you do?”

“Well, Vesemir said we had to do everything for ourselves. So Eskel and I stayed at the house that night, waiting for the knock. Eskel was sure it wasn’t a ghost, probably just some drunkard or the villager’s imagination. But then, in the middle of the night, we heard it, loud and clear. We rushed to the door, busted it open and saw no one. We did find a strange trail near the door and followed it to the village cemetery.”

“You must have been terrified,” Ciri said.

“Oh, we were,” Geralt chuckled. “It was so quiet. We got to the center of the cemetery when we heard footsteps around us. We stood back to back, ready to kill and die. And then—” Geralt snapped his fingers into the Igni sign and a small flame flickered before his face. “Light. A bunch of older apprentices around us, howling with laughter.”

Ciri shook her head slowly. “Uncle Vesemir? Really?”

“Well, every witcher of the School of the Wolf must pass it. It’s an ancient ritual of Kaer Morhen.”

“You’re all just… ridiculous.” Ciri burst out laughing.

Geralt smiled and leaned on the parapet. Ciri noticed then that the witcher was holding something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

Geralt slowly revealed it—a sword, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard. The witcher offered her the hilt and the girl seized it immediately, the warmth of its grip inviting her hand. She unsheathed the sword and the slender blade glinted in the morning sun. Astonished at its lightness, the girl turned and swung it. After training for so long with heavy wooden swords, wielding this blade in her hand she felt she could fly off the battlements of the old keep. She cut the morning mist again and again, slashing the throats and piercing the hearts of the fiends that inhabited her nightmares.

She stopped to catch her breath and when she turned, Geralt was smiling at her.

“Does it feel good in your hand?” He asked.

Ciri nodded and giggled while she sheathed the sword.

“It belonged to a witcher that trained here a long time ago. Vesemir adjusted it for your weight and height and I sharpened it.”

The witcher girl jumped at Geralt and hugged him tightly. After a moment of surprise, the witcher hugged her back.

“You know,” Geralt said when they separated, “you’ve learned here how to defend yourself. You have that potential in your hand now. This blade is light and sharp, it will want to leave its cage and bite. But keep this in your head—once you unsheathe it, there’s no coming back. That will always be the hardest decision you’ll have to make.”

“Is that why you have that golden brooch on yours?”

“How do you—” The witcher shook his head.

“I saw it in a dream. You were holding a woman bleeding out on the street. She had that same brooch.”

Geralt looked over the wall, his face like stone. “She was called Renfri and she... she was a princess like you. And yes, that’s why I have her brooch in my sword.”

He didn’t look eager to talk about it and Ciri didn’t press him. Instead, she approached him and looked at the abyss below them. “I hate leaving people behind. I had to leave my grandmother in Cintra, then the dryads in Brokilon and Dara after that. Now I have to leave Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert. I’m so tired of it, Geralt. Will it always be like this?”

The witcher put his arms around her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“I will always be with you.”

* * *

“Alright lady, your papers are in order. You can go.”

Yennefer mounted on her black horse and crossed the bridge over the swollen Pontar river, leaving behind a throng of merchants and peasants trying to pass through the customs post. After just a few steps of her horse on Redanian soil, the sorceress stopped abruptly. On the other side of the river, the forests of Temeria extended to the horizon. Among the sea of green, the road she had followed before approaching the bridge waited patiently for her return. _Stop overthinking. This won’t take long and I have more than enough time._

After setting the meeting in the Temple of Melitele via megascope, Yennefer had decided to avoid any unnecessary risk. Bidding farewell to Tissaia as she returned to her diplomatic missions through the Northern royal courts, she had headed to the Academy of Aretuza to spend the winter. Helping her friend Rita in her new role as Rectoress had been a much-needed distraction from her worries, but, as soon as the roads thawed, she had set out in secret to the Duchy of Ellander. The Northern roads that waited for Geralt and Ciri would take longer to reappear under the molten ice, giving her time for a short detour to the other side of the Pontar.

_Almost there_. The place where the spark of a single decision started an all-consuming fire. But even so, a tainted spark, one that contained the doom of its own product. Could an impure creation be saved from itself? Was it worth the effort? Many lives ago, she had asked herself the same questions. Her own answer at that time was marked forever on her wrists.

She reached the top of the hill and the city walls rose before her. Red standards hung from the guard towers of the southern gate. The white eagle of Redania flapped its wings as if getting ready to take flight. The sorceress wondered again if she should do the same and turn back to Ellander.

_Almost ten years already,_ Yennefer thought as she walked the bustling streets of Rinde. The city was an awkward combination of worn-out but still recognizable places and new additions that sticked out like a fresh, nasty scar on a familiar face. The air carried the events of past months in its smell of clay and mortar. The proud local nobles strove to repair the landmarks, but the rebellion of the Redanian peasants had left an unmistakable mark upon it.

The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestone startled her. A group of riders dismounted before a nearby building, bringing three wounded soldiers with them. At once, a lanky man emerged from the building and guided the troop inside. The last soldier stopped before him, his face twisted with rage and contempt. The tall man raised his hands in appeasement, only to find a blade over his throat. Yennefer rushed towards them. Before she got there, the enraged soldier spat on the ground and left. Sighing with resignation, the man was about to go back inside when he saw the sorceress. From up close, his light blue eyes and pointed ears left no doubt.

“Chireadan!”

“Yennefer! What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by and I thought—” Shouts from inside interrupted her.

The elf clenched his jaw. “Sorry, I have to go. We can talk later.”

“Can I help you?”

The healer’s eyes shone. “In fact, you can. Come, quick.”

Before they got to the end of the hallway, they bumped into the soldiers leaving the main room.

“Get this into your skull, elf,” one of them said, his finger an inch before Chireadan’s face. “We tried every sawbones in this city before we brought ‘em here. Guess what? None has any room left thanks to your traitor kind. You better slog your guts out mending our wounded because you see my boys?” He grinned. “They are just waiting for an excuse to expand our collection of nonhuman scum hung at the square.”

“Are you suggesting Chireadan would let a patient die?” Yennefer asked. The soldier stared at the sorceress with a mix of surprise, confusion and restrained anger. After a moment of quiet tension, the soldier made a gesture and his companions followed him outside.

“Thank you,” Chireadan said when they closed the door behind them, letting out a long sigh. “Few people in Rinde would dare to defy the sorceress that almost destroyed the city. Or so the stories say.”

“Stories from a time when all the city respected you and sought your services. What happened?”

“It’s been some rough years, Yennefer. Today’s Rinde has little in common with the one you left a decade ago. First, the peasants rose up in rebellion, and now…” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. A slight wince highlighted fine wrinkles all over his face, betraying a pain that ran deep beneath. Somehow, this elf seemed to have visibly aged in just a decade—an absolute absurdity. “It started shortly after the war with Nilfgaard. Just whispers among elves in the beginning. Then leaflets calling for revolt appeared in the nonhuman district and the attacks on the roads started not long after.”

“Elven rebels here, too?” Yennefer asked. Chireadan frowned. “I’ve encountered them in Sodden and Temeria,” the sorceress clarified.

“Then the saying is true, misfortunes never come alone. I truly thought it was just a Redanian matter. Mobs started lynching elves and dwarves during the peasant rebellion and the youngest among us needed just a spark to take up arms. I guess things weren’t better in the rest of the Continent. Anyway, come with me, I must tend to the wounded.”

Yennefer followed Chireadan to a large room where the three injured soldiers laid among others. A nauseating stink of sweat and blood assailed her. Chireadan wrinkled his nose while he examined the rushed bandages on an unconscious soldier’s arm. “It’s a miracle this one’s not bled out. We have to change the dressing, bring me the cloth over there.”

“What’s their goal?” Yennefer said as she handed him the rags.

“The Scoia’tael’s?” The elf raised his gaze from the soldier. “That’s how they call themselves, because of the squirrel tails they wear. Well, they demand the liberation of the nonhuman prisoners, the end of the racial laws and the privileges by birthright.”

“Here, in Redania? The nobles will never accept it. They’d have Vizimir’s head on a spike if they suspected him of bargaining with those chips on the table.”

“I’m aware,” Chireadan said sharply. “It’s hard not to notice with every mutilated soldier that finds his way here. This war won’t end with a treaty. Is this the reason you’re here?”

“Oh, no. It’s more of a… personal reason.”

Before she could continue, one of the wounded moaned and squirmed, and the healer rushed to his side.

“I must—” He struggled. “I must warn them.”

“Of what?” Chireadan asked.

The soldier twisted and screamed. “You fucking squirrel, let me out!”

Yennefer approached the man. “We’re in Rinde. You’re safe. Chireadan is just trying to treat your wounds.”

“There’s no time for that, take me to the barracks now.”

“Soldier,” said Yennefer. “What’s your name?”

He stared at her. “Caspar.”

“You are in no condition to go anywhere, Caspar. I can take a message if that’s what you want.”

“Not with him here,” Caspar said through gritted teeth, looking at Chireadan. The elf threw up his hands and crossed the room to attend another patient.

“Well?” Yennefer asked.

“I heard two squirrels talk before they stabbed me. They’re breaking camp. They’re leaving Redania.”

“Great news, then. Where’s the urgency in that message?”

“They’re going to join the squirrels from Kaedwen. Don’t you understand? These commandos are giving us hell. If they join forces—” The man shook and moaned, his breaths turned to rasps.

“I see. But what can you do about it?”

The wounded soldier rose slightly, drawing closer to Yennefer, his voice a whisper. “The Murivel pass. They’ll cross the Kestrel Mountains there, towards Kaedwen. An ambush there… We’ll get them all.” Caspar’s smile was interrupted by a coughing fit. Yennefer turned away as Chireadan rushed to the dying man. The sorceress wiped her hand across her face. It was covered in blood.

“ _Bloede pest!”_ Chireadan screamed, trying to turn Caspar over. The cough stopped after an endless moment. The soldier’s lifeless eyes were fixed on the ceiling. An ominous laugh made Yennefer’s skin crawl.

“You’re done, elf,” one of the wounded grunted. “Maybe I’m too. But I’ll die with a smile knowing your body will hang soon on the square. Then they’ll get the rest of your own and you’ll all understand that Redania is no place for murdering scum like you.”

Chireadan stooped over the corpse, grabbing the bed with both hands, his knuckles white.

Yennefer approached him. “Chireadan…”

He stormed out of the room. She followed him.

“Chireadan!”

“Don’t you see it? I have no way out!” His hands trembled. “Those soldiers were just looking for an excuse to arrest me, it doesn’t matter what we tell them. What’s left for me, join the rebels and die with a blade in my hand? By the Mother, my job is mending bodies, not maiming them!”

“Maybe there is another way. If the Scoia’tael are fleeing to Kaedwen, perhaps they can help you escape Redania, start a new life there.”

The elf laughed bitterly. “A new life among humans in Kaedwen, another kingdom besieged by rebel commandos. How do you think they’ll treat me there? Not just an elf but an outsider.”

“Then join them. You’ve healed wounded for one side, why not for the other?”

“I must be feverish too if I’m hearing the hero of the Hill, savior of the Northern Kingdoms, urging me to enlist with the rebels trying to topple them.”

“Urging you to save your neck, Chireadan. Do you think I fought on the Hill for this? For injustice, crushing the different, the pogroms? No. I fought for the people I care about. And I intend to keep on doing it. If there is truth to what that soldier said, we are the only ones who know about the Scoia’tael plans. You still have time to reach them and get out of Redania.”

The healer stared at her, a storm raging behind his eyes. He let out a long sigh. “I’ll get my things. As for my patients… I’ll go warn my assistant.”

“You’ve done far more for them than they would have done in your place.”

He nodded. “You won’t be safe here either, those soldiers saw you with me. The river is our best bet. I have a friend who can get us across.”

“Then I’ll see you on the docks at midnight,” the sorceress said. “I must do something first.”

* * *

“This is a good spot,” the witcher said. “Here, give me the reins.”

Ciri dismounted her mare. As soon as her feet touched the mossy forest floor, pain shot through her legs and she fell pathetically to the ground.

“Shit!” She winced and moaned.

“All winter without riding a horse,” Geralt chuckled. “It’s only normal you get leg cramps now.”

“Normal?” She massaged her worn out legs. “Does riding all day sound normal to you? The sun is almost set.”

“Then get up and help me. This is the only light we’re getting tonight—no fires. We’re still close to the fort and I don’t want to alert any patrols.“

Ciri got to her feet and relieved her exhausted mare from the weight of her saddlebags. After rummaging a bit, she took some food and sat on the ground next to Geralt, her back resting on a thick tree. She took a deep breath. The air carried the scents of earth, damp moss and flowers in bloom. The forests of Kaedwen were beautiful in the spring. Ciri’s stomach rumbled and she started munching on the lamb pie she had bought in a village that morning.

“You better get your fill of food and rest tonight,” Geralt said. “We have another long day before us.”

“Oh, come on,” Ciri protested, her voice muffled by the pie. “First you leave Triss behind and now you want to ride all day.”

“Triss was too sick to continue and you know Eskel is taking care of her. We just need to get some distance between Fort Leyda and us. The road will be much calmer after—”

Leaves rustled suddenly somewhere nearby. Geralt's eyes narrowed.

“What was that?” Ciri asked.

“A deer. We must have scared it. Or something else did.” The witcher stood in silence for a while, eyes alert and his sword nearby. After a while, he slowly relaxed.

“I wish I had a bow,” Ciri said. “We could eat some fresh meat tonight.”

“A bow is no weapon for a witcher.”

“You witchers are so boring. I should have stayed in Brokilon, the dryads would have taught me how to shoot a bow.”

Geralt laughed. “Dryads do not hunt forest animals. I don’t know how Eithné could have put up with you.”

Ciri smiled. “You never told me how you met her. When was it, a thousand years ago?”

“Not quite that long. But I was still a young witcher, sent on a contract by the King of Verden...”

Ciri’s eyes closed as night fell over the forest and Geralt’s voice slowly drifted to the realm of dreams.

* * *

The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon when Yennefer reached Rinde’s main square. Not even a ray of moonlight cut through the overcast sky, and only torches and lamps hanging from the balconies provided some light in the dark. Not that there was much to light up. A couple of guards leaned on their halberds before the mayor’s house. On the opposite side of the square, a bunch of drunks broke the night silence with their songs and shouts. Between the two groups, the corpses of two elves and a dwarf swayed softly, hanging from the gallows at the center of the square.

The sorceress stood on one of the side entrances to the square. The thought of stepping into it felt wrong, as if the impossible peace of that place would snap like a taut rope with no hope of mending it. Her resolution hardened—despite her sacrifices for the Northern kingdoms, despite the friends fallen in battle, she would never help tighten the chains of injustice.

Under the faint light of the torches, the mayor’s house looked as ten years back, but an attentive look on the right place unveiled the truth. The top of the house had been rebuilt in an austere style after a djinn had collapsed the previous one. Yennefer felt a strange relief as she realized she was not the only one marked by the events of that day. But could she restore what had fallen time and again during those ten years? Was it not a doomed effort, trying to build on a cursed foundation that had never withstood for a long time? Each breakup with the witcher had inflicted a deeper, more painful wound than the last. And now he had embraced a new life, taking care of the princess of Cintra. Was there a place in his life for her? Was it worth casting her shield aside, show herself as she was, maybe even taste the sweet fruit of affection just to be abandoned again? _You already know what will happen_ , an old cruel voice whispered in her ear. _No one will ever love you_.

The world spun around her—screaming drunkards, crackling flames, dancing corpses on the gallows. She leaned on the wall of the entrance arch. The smoke from the torches scratched her throat and slowly choked her. She felt her own insignificance again, stuck into her heart like a sharp dagger. A shiver ran down her spine as the clouds above her opened, the moon emerging from behind them. She was naked against the silver light, no shield able to protect her. Yennefer stopped fighting and tasted salt on her lips. Her limp body trembled against cold stone.

The desire to flee invaded her. To flee far from the city, from the war brewing within, from kings, rebels and assassins to a shelter against this ravenous cold. Inside a tent standing bravely on a cruel mountain, beside braziers that warmed her skin. A smile against hers, a drowsy, sincere voice uttering a confession she clung onto, each word a rope she would never release. _You’re important to me._

Yennefer rose. She had lost track of time, but the moon was still above her among the clouds, lighting the now quiet square. Her footsteps broke the silence as she walked towards the docks, where Chireadan and her embarked on an old weathered boat, never to return.

* * *

Crows cawed in the night. The clouds flared red as if the sun was about to break through, and the scents of the blooming spring had turned into a burning smoke. Cintra was falling. The bird of prey would take her soon, as it did almost every night. But the face looming over her was not the one she expected.

“Ciri, get up!” His hoarse voice could hardly belong to the same person that had told her old stories of Brokilon just a while ago, but Geralt’s eyes were full of worry and Ciri did as he said. “Fort Leyda is burning, we have to get out of here.”

“War again.” Ciri’s voice broke. “But we’re so far North, how could it reach us so fast?”

“This can’t be Nilfgaard. Must be bandits. There’s no time, get your things and—”

A whistle cut through the air, ending abruptly as a thud on the tree behind Geralt. The arrow was just a few inches above his head.

“ _Glaeddyv vort, dh’oine!_ ” A raspy voice rumbled in the dark of the forest. Geralt stood silent. “Do you not understand? Drop the sword, human, or my next arrow will pierce your neck!”

The witcher’s hand gripped his sheathed sword, where Renfri’s golden brooch glinted against the fiery sky. “ _Essea neén dh’oine_ ,” Geralt said curtly.

Ciri recalled her Elder Speech lessons with Triss back in Kaer Morhen. _I am no human._ The witcher’s eyes burned bright. Ciri had no idea how many attackers surrounded them, but she knew Geralt could see in the dark far better than her. His thumb pressed against the brooch on the sword’s crossguard. What would he do? Ciri’s sword was by her saddlebag, too far for her to reach before an arrow found her.

A woman emerged suddenly from the trees in front of them, her footsteps so light that Ciri didn’t hear her coming. She held a short bow with a strange shape, bowstring drawn near her pointed ear. Her green clothes were splattered in blood.

“ _Gwynbleidd_?”

“Toruviel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I'm sorry for the long wait, the final chapters are shaping up nicely so we'll reach the end soon. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and giving kudos. Let me know what you think in the comments.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri are forced to travel through Kaedwen with a band of Scoia'tael while Yennefer makes a disturbing discovery when she arrives at the Temple of Melitele.

_“ Gwynbleidd?”_

“Toruviel?” Geralt replied. The elf looked exactly as he remembered, same fierce expression as all those years back in the Blue Mountains. She lowered her bow, brow still furrowed, dirt and blood all over her. “You attacked the fort.”

“No time to talk, witcher. You’re coming with us.”

“I’m not—”

“We’re not leaving witnesses.” Toruviel’s voice hardened as she drew the bowstring again. “You come with us or you die.”

Geralt counted five more arrowheads glinting among the trees. Six elves were not enough to assault Fort Leyda, the proud stronghold of Northern Kaedwen. Dozens more raiders most likely surrounded them, blood still fresh on their weapons. The fort defenders would come looking for revenge sooner than later and perhaps his past self would have bet on the small chance of fighting his way out of the incoming chaos—but he would not gamble with Ciri’s life. Reality set in as the screams from the fort grew louder. He couldn’t risk getting caught by Kaedwenian soldiers when spies from every kingdom were after Ciri. They had to escape through the forest and the elves were their only option.

The witcher lowered his sword and nodded. Ciri was staring at him, disbelief and terror fighting in her eyes.

Geralt fought the knot in his throat. “Hey,” he whispered to her, “she’s a friend. We need their help to get out of here. We’ll leave them as soon as it’s safe, I promise.”

Toruviel took Ciri’s sword from the ground. “Your sword, _Gwynbleidd_.”

“I didn’t betray you to the humans of Posada back then. Do you still not trust me?”

“You’d be dead already if I didn’t. That doesn’t mean you won’t have to earn my brothers and sisters’ trust.”

Geralt sighed and handed her his sword.

“If it makes you feel any safer,” Toruviel whispered, “they don’t know about the silver one you keep on your horse.”

Geralt and Ciri got on their horses and followed the Scoia’tael procession through the forest. He immediately noticed two riders behind them, closing any escape option.

“If she’s your friend,” Ciri muttered, “I can’t wait to meet your enemies.”

Geralt swore quietly.

* * *

The path wound across the forest, climbing up steep hills and down deep ravines, always under the cover of tall pines. Geralt could never have found his way through this endless sea of tree, shrub and rock. Putting his trust on their Scoia’tael companions, he followed them atop his horse always keeping Ciri by his side, even though he knew he could do little to protect her without his steel sword.

“Lighten up, witcher.” Toruviel said from her horse behind them. “We’ll reach the main road tomorrow. You and the girl will get your swords back and you’ll both be free to go, as I promised.”

“Presuming I don’t break my neck before,” he grunted, clutching the reins as they descended into another gully.

“Is he always like this?” Toruviel asked Ciri. The girl snorted and turned her head away. She looked uncomfortable among the rebels, never letting her guard down. Geralt cursed under his breath, blaming himself again for choosing the route that had led them straight into Scoia’tael hands.

“Birds of the same feather.” Toruviel sighed. “At least you keep better company than last time, Geralt. Where is that bard of yours?”

“Running after someone’s wife?” Geralt said with a shrug. “Drinking someone’s ale? Or snagging someone’s coin singing embellished bullshit about me. Perhaps all of them at the same time. I haven’t been keeping up with him lately.”

“Sounds like him. Should I worry about the lute I gave him?”

“Not at all, it’s his most prized possession. He’s sure to show it off before singing about the time he stole it from an elven king.”

Toruviel raised an eyebrow. “As I said, much better company now.” She overtook them and headed towards the front of the column, talking with her comrades as she went by.

Geralt sank back into his thoughts. His mind had been busy for the last few days, especially after the night near Fort Leyda. Watching over the elves and dwarves surrounding them, arguing with Toruviel and keeping an eye on Ciri occupied all his time, but another thought was always brewing in the back of his mind, and though he tried to drown it, it always came back to the surface.

Yennefer.

She would be waiting in the Temple of Melitele, fierce, ravishing, _alive_. After months of grief, he had not fully grasped the news of her survival. Everything he had done since that terrible day on the scorched fields of Sodden Hill was because of his promise to her—breaking the cycle of neglect that had scarred them both before it took Ciri.

_Turning your legacy into something more._ A vow made to a ghost who was now walking among the living. At first, all he could see in Ciri was another terrible blow of fate, his atonement for past misdeeds, and he would have hardly opened his heart to her without his realization on that day of ash and death. Without Yennefer’s sacrifice.

Worst of all, he didn’t know where her heart was now. Their journeys had split, and the roads she had followed were unknown to him. What had she felt on that cursed hill as fire consumed earth, flesh and her own spirit? How had she passed the following days, blinded and hurt and scared? When she rose from her deathbed, was she the same person that had been laid upon it?

His journey had rekindled his feelings for her, but he couldn’t ask the same of her. He had to be grateful for the help she had offered Ciri. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help longing for more. Waking up to her scent in bed, listening to her teasing, watching her brush her hair, read an old tome or write a letter in her elegant script…

“Geralt!” Ciri stared at him with a strange look on her face.

“Huh, what?”

Ciri looked somewhere behind them and grew a bit pale. “Nothing. Just… I’ll tell you later.”

Geralt turned and saw nothing besides a group of young elves shouting and laughing. “Alright.” He lowered his voice. “Are you sure?”

Ciri bit her lip and stared vacantly ahead for a moment. She startled. A dwarf was approaching them from the front, rushing his horse.

“Witcher! Come with me, quick!” He struggled to keep his panicked steed steady.

Geralt frowned and looked at Ciri. “Why?”

“There’s a bloody huge yghern blocking our way. We have two wounded and more will be soon if you don’t come. Now!”

Geralt cursed. “Fine, but she’s coming with me.”

“She’s to stay right there. Orders from Toruviel.”

The witcher gritted his teeth. Before he could consider his chances, two elven riders, a man and a woman closely resembling each other, emerged from the trees at the sides of the path. Their hands gripped the hilts of their sheathed blades. Geralt cursed again.

“If anything happens to her,” he said to the two elves, “if she gets so much as a scratch, I’ll gut you both.” He turned to Ciri. “Stay with them. I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded.

“Come on, Roach.”

* * *

An hour had passed since Geralt had left. The Scoia’tael sat in groups on the side of the path, while Ciri sat alone, close to her horse. Her twin guards had given her some distance, talking now in hushed voices while still observing her every movement. But that wasn’t the reason why Ciri felt on edge.

Earlier that day she had started to feel watched. It didn’t take her long to catch a glimpse of her stalker. Behind Geralt and her, hidden among the trees beside the path, a pair of eyes were fixed on her. The scrawny figure, donned in a cap with the typical squirrel tail of the rebels, vanished before she could get a good look. Something felt strangely familiar. She had hesitated to tell Geralt, unsure at first of what she had seen, and later worried about someone hearing her.

But now she was alone. The granddaughter and heir to the most hated woman in the Elven world, surrounded by dozens of elven rebels armed to the teeth in the depths of their ancient territory. It would take just one person to recognize her, and then not even Geralt could save her.

The urge to run away grew by the minute. She was alone, the only human in sight, countless eyes staring at her. She lowered her head and looked at the mossy ground. If she could lose the twins’ attention just for one moment, she would bolt out of the path, straining her horse until she reached the end of the forest. She knew Geralt would manage—Toruviel couldn’t deny him his freedom after killing that monster. And then he would find her, as he always did.

A panicked scream startled her out of her reverie. The twins turned towards the back of the column, metal scraping on leather as they drew their blades.

_ This is it. _

Ciri already had a foot on the stirrup and was about to jump on her horse when a hand grabbed her. Her stomach dropped. She turned. A young elf was staring at her, eyes wide and jaw set. A bow was slung across his back. His raven curls were tucked under a Squirrel cap, and a stubble covered his cheeks. She had seen his eyes stalking her among the trees that morning, and also a long time before in the forests of Cintra, throwing her a warning before she ate poisonous berries.

“Ciri,” Dara said, “don’t do anything stupid.” A chaos of rebels shouting and horses neighing surrounded them.

“Just let me leave, Dara,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Why?” He lowered his voice. “Oh, you’re afraid I’ll betray your secret. Afraid I’ll turn everyone against you.” He smiled sadly. “Now you know what it’s like for us to live in your world.”

Ciri looked around. Two dwarves dragged the carcass of a centipede almost as large as them. “We’re lucky we only got the offspring of that yghern,” they laughed. The twins were back, looking at her with suspicion. Her chance to escape had vanished. She looked back at Dara.

“Do you know why I joined the Scoia’tael?” He asked.

“You want revenge against the people that killed your family.”

“Revenge? That’s what you want, right? They killed your grandmother, robbed you of your future and they still haven’t paid the price. You expect a punishment for that in your world. But did Calanthe get any for all the elves killed in her name?”

Something stung deep inside her at the mention of her grandmother. Ciri still had a hard time believing she had ordered the massacres during Filavandrel’s Rebellion. During her time with Cintran refugees, she had seen definite proof of the cruelty inflicted upon nonhumans. She couldn’t get out of her head the necklaces made of elven ears, or the screams of a human master as her halfling servant got his revenge for a lifetime of abuse. How could a woman so capable of love as her grandmother be responsible for such hatred? She knew Calanthe would have done anything to protect her. _Anything._ Perhaps that was the problem. She had grown up sheltered from all troubles outside the court, but she couldn’t shake off a sense of guilt. Had so many people suffered because of _her?_

“I don’t want revenge, Ciri. I just want a place where I can live in peace, so I’m helping build it. I won’t betray your secret.”

Ciri let out a sigh and held Dara’s stare for a long time. She had endured too many betrayals to just take him at his word. “I understand. But I won’t be safe until the men pursuing me are gone. And I don’t want to hide and wait until they grow old and die on their beds—I want to live. So, if I have to kill them,” her voice hardened, “I will.”

Shouts and screams arrived from the front of the column, and the rebels stirred again. A ghostly rider covered in blood appeared, his skin as white as his hair, dark veins bulging across his face. “Move! The road is clear, move!” Geralt pointed his sword towards the front, the afternoon sun glinting on the steel blade, and the Scoia’tael bolted as if they had just seen a spectre. On his back, he carried Ciri’s sword on its sheathe. “Move, move!”

* * *

Two rows of poplars flanked the road, fields spreading beyond them as far as the eye could see. The Pontar Valley was at its most beautiful in the Duchy of Ellander. Yennefer savored the smells of grass and flowers as her horse approached the end of the road. There, surrounded by a long stone wall, stood an imposing building with a tall, pointed tower. After weeks of travel, she had finally arrived at the Temple of Melitele. Soon she would meet Geralt and her child of destiny. The time of fears and speculation would end, and she would face what fate had in store for her. She breathed in. Her attention turned to the entrance archway to the temple grounds, where a soldier and a priestess quarreled.

“No,” the woman said, her hands at her hips. “And that is my final answer, I have a temple to run.”

“This order comes from General Natalis,” the soldier insisted. “We are the First Temerian Army, and we are granted authority by King Foltest to use the kingdom’s resources.”

“I don’t see any King Foltest here, and I don’t think he would agree to this madness. I don’t know where you come from, but this is not just a place of prayer. This temple is the main house of healing, sanctuary of the Goddess and school of the Duchy of Ellander. We have barely got through the winter and I’m not about to give our last provisions to you.”

The soldier shook his head. “You’ll hear from my commander.”

Yennefer dismounted and smiled faintly at the priestess. “Your temper hasn’t aged one bit, Nenneke.”

“It’s about time you arrived, Yennefer.” Nenneke arched her brows. The archpriestess of the Temple of Melitele counted a few more wrinkles around her eyes, but her presence was just as commanding as the last time Yennefer had seen her. “What took you so long?”

“A little distraction along the way. Just sorceress business, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear about it. Where is the girl you mentioned in your letter?”

“She will arrive soon.” Yennefer looked around her. “I’d rather explain in private. But don’t fret,” she said as she grabbed a pouch from her horse, “here’s the donation I promised.”

Nenneke took the bag and smiled. “You’re very much appreciated, Yennefer. Please come in.”

The archpriestess closed the gate behind them, and they walked across the temple grounds. The sun was high in the sky, and dozens of students toiled in the gardens while priestesses chastised them for their sloppy work.

“These are difficult times for the temple,” Nenneke said. “The richest families in Temeria used to send their youngest daughters to us, along with generous patronage. But times change, and now they prefer your academy in Aretuza, so we make do with what we have.”

“Don’t resent me, Nenneke. I can’t stand the thought of talentless girls wasting a spot at Aretuza for the ones that truly need it. Magic can’t be bought with gold. Either you have the potential, or not.”

“Luckily, the girls here just need to work hard,” Nenneke smiled, “and a bit of substance between their ears. But that too seems to be scarce nowadays.”

They reached the end of a corridor that ran between rows of ornamented pillars, and Nenneke opened the door to her study.

“Take a sit, Yennefer. And tell me about this girl.”

Yennefer took her seat before the desk of the archpriestess. “I haven’t met her yet.” She watched for Nenneke’s reaction. “She’s coming here with Geralt.”

Nenneke raised her eyebrows. After a long silence, she snorted. “What are you two up to?”

“It’s a sensitive matter,” Yennefer said, “far too sensitive to mention in a letter. There are dangerous people after the girl.”

“We have hidden people from persecution in this temple before. She will be safe here.” Nenneke sighed. “That is, if these soldiers camped outside leave for once.”

“Why are they here?” Geralt and Ciri were supposed to arrive from the Kaedwenian border, just a few miles from the Temple. “Is there any trouble in the border?”

“The only trouble I see is the one they bring. Camping in our land, taking provisions, distracting the girls… I’m in charge of dozens of students who have been locked up for the whole winter without seeing almost any men. It’s hard enough as it is. And then there’s that officer they send here whenever I tire of their demands.”

“Do you mean the one you were arguing with?”

“Oh, no, that was just an underling. The officer is a boneheaded man so full of himself. Always ‘Temeria this’ _,_ ‘Temeria that’…”

A student knocked on the door. “Mother Nenneke,” she started.

“Is he here already?” Nenneke asked. The girl nodded.

“Let me talk to him,” Yennefer said.

“Every minute you keep him off me would be a blessing. He’s all yours.”

* * *

“Look, Geralt!” Ciri arrived on her horse to the witcher’s side and showed him a short bow, its black and white limbs curved in a complex shape. “Toruviel gave it to me, she says it’s made with horn from a chort.”

“I’m impressed.” Geralt smiled. “You wore her down in the end. I’m glad to see she was still wise enough not to give you any arrows. Don’t get any ideas.”

Ciri paid no attention to Geralt. She drew the string over and over, imagining her arrows finding enemies behind every tree as they went on through the forest. At first, she had doubted Geralt’s decision of staying with the Scoia’tael, traveling through the forest instead of the main roads. But in the days since the yghern incident she had slowly broken down her barriers and now she spent her time talking to Dara, Toruviel and the two elves that still followed Geralt and her. They were twins, the woman was named Toreth, and her brother, Ithel. They had joined Toruviel’s company three years before, after escaping a pogrom in Ban Gleán where they had lost their family. Now everyone knew them as Toruviel’s Two Blades.

The company had lots of orphans like Dara and them. Ciri almost envied them. After losing their home, they had found their people and their purpose. But her future was still full of questions. She had no place to call home, and she doubted if she would ever feel safe again somewhere. Even in Kaer Morhen, hidden from her enemies and surrounded by Geralt and his brothers, her trances had threatened to harm her. Cirilla of Cintra had died a long time ago. Now she was Ciri of Nowhere.

Ciri stopped playing with her bow and put it in its leather case. In a sudden silence, the Scoia’tael around her took their caps off. Birds chirped and a stream murmured somewhere ahead. Ciri gaped at Geralt in confusion, and he gestured her to look around. She gasped when she noticed the marble columns among the trees, flashing white in the few spots not covered by ivy and moss. Rows of pillars spread to their left and right.

“What is this place, Geralt?”

“Shaerrawedd,” Geralt said. “This palace was the jewel of the Elven kings of the past.”

“But how— Did the humans destroy it?”

“No, the elves did. After their greatest defeat two hundred years ago, before fleeing to the mountains. The humans had plundered and occupied the cities left by the elves as they retreated into the wild, hoping to take them back some day. But their youngest, led by Aelirenn, refused to leave Shaerrawedd to the pillagers. They followed her into a great last stand to protect the beauty of their world. And they were slaughtered. The elders lost all hope and destroyed Shaerrawedd before leaving.”

“Why have we come here?”

“I guess they want to honor their dead before facing their own war. Maybe they hope to find an answer here to the same question posed in the past.”

“But if they lost all those years ago when they were still strong, is there any hope for them now?”

“The kings’ armies far outnumber them. The Scoia’tael can’t win in open battle—their only hope is to make this war costlier to humans than their demands. So it all comes down to the choices of the kings. That’s why we must not intervene in this fight.”

“But they are alone! The world is stacked against them, I’ve seen humans treat them as filth. They need help.”

“Blood only results in more blood. I’ve been in that position before, and there is no good choice. The best you can do is not get involved and avoid more deaths on your conscience.”

“That’s bullshit, Geralt, and you know it. If you really believed that, you’d never have taken me with you out of Riverdell. You’d never have helped and trained me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You… You’re too young to understand.”

Ciri snorted and shook her head.

“Ciri, I see why you want to help them, but this is not our fight. Tomorrow we’ll part with them, and hopefully we’ll reach the Temple of Melitele before dark. You better enjoy these last hours of freedom,” he said with a smile, “because I don’t think Mother Nenneke will let you anywhere near a place like this in the foreseeable future.”

* * *

The notes echoed in the elven halls like drops pattering on a rainy night. Toruviel plucked the strings on a bone white lute while a male elf sang melancholically at her side. Elves, dwarves and halflings sat around a bonfire on a small courtyard nestled between four ruinous balconies. A ghostly audience seemed to contemplate the performance from above, Geralt thought.

What would the proud elves from centuries past think if they saw their tattered, starving progeny huddling together with the defeated races of old to fight the cold at the Palace of Shaerrawedd? Probably the same mixture of horror and wonder that witchers of the Golden Age would have felt if they saw one of the last members of their caste obstinately carrying his child of destiny through a war-torn land. Toruviel’s lute sang its last notes and Ciri whispered in wonder.

“That was so beautiful… I don’t want to leave this place. Not so soon.”

“We must leave early in the morning,” Geralt said. “You should get some sleep.”

“But look! The balustrade on that balcony is just like one in Cintra’s Castle.”

“That’s because Cintra was an elven city before the humans arrived. Elves all over the Continent adored this palace and built theirs alike, so they would always have a bit of Shaerrawedd with them.”

Ciri raised a brow. “You’re not _that_ old.”

Geralt chuckled. “Stories live longer than witchers. You’re not going to give up, are you? Let’s take a walk.”

They wandered through corridors set between fallen stone overgrown with vine until they arrived at a surprisingly well-preserved cloister. In the center, a marble statue of a woman was almost buried beneath a mountain of rock. Only her head and an outstretched arm were visible, leading her people with clear eyes set on a place that no longer existed. Geralt and Ciri zigzagged between bushes and flowers emerging from broken stone slabs.

“This is Aelirenn,” Geralt said, “and these ruins are all she achieved with her struggle.”

“But all you see is rock,” Ciri protested. “She’s still inspiring her people.”

“Still leading them to their doom. But not all elves visit this place to spur the rebel within them. Many do so to remember a world they lost, but still lives in them somehow. Like these white roses,” he said, kneeling before a bush, “that flower all year round, in an endless cycle of rebirth. The roses of Shaerrawedd. As long as they have a place to take root, they will never die.”

“And these ones?” Ciri asked as she looked at a bunch of small, round flowers springing from slender stalks. “They grow all over the palace ruins.”

“Those are Feainnewedd flowers, Ciri. They grow where elven blood has been spilled.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly straightening up and looking around her.

A long silence followed.

“Yennefer believes they have hidden power,” Geralt finally said. “And someone is using it for no good.”

“You’ve never told me much about her.”

“Well, I told you she’s a sorceress, and—”

“About what she means to you.”

“Hmm. There’s nothing one can hide from you, huh? We were together. But that was a long time ago.”

“I’m not stupid, Geralt. I was on Sodden Hill with you while you looked for her. You still care.”

“Well, I did. I _do_ , but… it’s complicated.”

“I dreamed of her on the day you found me. And you were there too, crying out her name. That surely must mean something.”

“She and I are bound by the same forces that bind you and me. But that doesn’t matter now because I screwed up. I don’t want to hurt her or myself anymore.”

“Hurt?”

Geralt let out a long sigh. He took a Feainnewedd flower, considering it from all sides as he spun it in his hand. “Love is a hard thing, Ciri. You open your heart to someone, and they can nourish it or rip it to shreds. We’ve done both to each other too many times. Maybe I deserve it, but she doesn’t. She sacrificed herself for a greater cause while I was running away from my destiny. I could have been there with her, and perhaps she wouldn’t have gotten hurt like that. She doesn’t deserve a cynic like me.”

“You’re no cynic. A grumpy old man, definitely, but if you were a cynic, I would not be here.”

“You’ll never yield. You two have a lot in common.”

Ciri flinched. A crow landed on Aelirenn’s hand. The black bird rattled and pecked the stone. It looked at them for what seemed an eternity.

A horn boomed in the mountains ahead of them and the crow flew away. While it still echoed, another horn blasted behind them, and then another, all around them. With no way of escape.

* * *

Yennefer approached the temple gate, hardly believing her eyes. A dashing officer dressed in Temerian blue stared at her, eyes wide open.

“Ma’am?” Roche’s mouth gaped as he struggled to find the words. “I… It’s good to see you safe. I’d never have thought I’d find you here.”

“The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant. I didn’t expect to meet you so far from Vizima. I hope you resolved the situation after the attack on the road. I didn’t want to leave like that.”

“Ma’am,” Roche smiled shyly. “You left no trouble for us to solve back there. You put the whole squad of ambushers on the loose.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yennefer smiled back. “But now I fear I just landed in more trouble here in the border. Some disagreement with Kaedwen?”

“Not with Kaedwen itself. There’s some rebel activity there, so we’re keeping an eye on the other side of the Pontar.”

“Rebels, you say?”

“Yes, they’re mainly elves,” Roche said. “They’ve been causing all sort of trouble in Redania and Kaedwen. I don’t know if you heard, but they raided Fort Leyda in Northern Kaedwen a few weeks back. These Scoia’tael know what they’re doing, they even have a witcher clearing the forest paths of monsters for them.”

“A witcher?” Nothing made sense. Geralt was supposed to bring the girl avoiding any trouble. Maybe this was one of his comrades.

“Yeah, we’ve got unusual reports from that band of rebels. We’ve even heard of a human girl traveling with them.”

She was going to kill him. What was he thinking? Maybe he hadn’t changed at all, and he was just as selfish as he had been in his worst moments. “Listen,” Yennefer said, struggling to keep her cool. “I’m expecting someone to come from the other side of the Pontar any day now. Is it dangerous there at the moment?”

Roche set his jaw and looked at her. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we expect there to be fighting. A large rebel unit from Redania entered Kaedwen through the Murivel pass. The Kaedwenian Army is going to crush their own rebels for good before they have the chance to join the others. Sorry, I really can’t say anything more.”

Yennefer’s stomach dropped like a stone. The Scoia’tael from Redania had only escaped to Kaedwen because of _her_. She had chosen to say nothing so that Chireadan could make it out of Rinde alive. Now Geralt and the girl were in direct danger and it was all her fault. Her ears rang as blood rushed to her head. She had to save them.

“Vernon,” she said as she grabbed his forearm. “These people are very important to me and I’ve put them in danger.”

“I’m very sorry, Yennefer.”

“If my help in Vizima meant anything to you, you have to help me here.”

Roche looked down and huffed. He slowly rose his eyes to meet hers. “ _Wolf._ The witcher and the girl from Sodden Hill. The ones you were looking for in Vizima.”

Yennefer kept his gaze as a shudder ran through her.

“I can’t leave my post,” he said. “Do you promise you won’t tell anyone? And you won’t interfere in the fight between elves and humans?”

Yennefer nodded. “I promise.”

“The ambush will happen in the ruins of Shaerrawedd any moment now.” Vernon Roche sighed. “You better hurry.”

* * *

The Scoia’tael camp was a stormy sea in the night. Orders, screams and prayers floated above a hubbub of rebels and torches. Geralt pushed against the crowds, never letting go of Ciri’s hand as he looked frantically for their horses.

“To the South Road!” Toruviel bellowed as dozens of warriors streamed past her. “They’re coming from the North! Go, go!”

A dark smoke rising from all directions covered the sky. The Army of Kaedwen would burn the whole forest to the ground before letting the rebels escape. Their horns boomed ever closer, rattling Geralt’s bones every time. Yennefer must have felt the same dread as the Nilfgaardians launched assault after assault at Sodden Hill. Had she foreseen her fate that day? Geralt certainly found himself assailed by grim thoughts. _Whatever happens, I’ll get Ciri to safety. I’ll keep my promise, Yen._ He sharpened his senses, knowing they could not afford any misstep, or they would find themselves trapped between the chaos of the throng and the deadly certainty of the Kaedwenian pikes.

_“Gwynbleidd!_ ” Someone yelled, raising a hand that held their horses’ reins. Dara, Ciri’s friend.

Geralt nodded at him. He helped Ciri to her mount and jumped atop Roach.

“Follow me!” Geralt shouted above the noise.

As they made their way to Toruviel, the tide of rebels stopped, and screams rose in Elder and Common Speech. “They’re blocking the South Road too!”

Trapped. Geralt cursed. They should have parted with the Scoia’tael a long time ago. He had grown overconfident, and his guilt about separating Ciri from more friends had been the final nail in their coffin. _Stop. Breathe in, breathe out. Get her out of here whatever the cost._

Everyone was looking at Toruviel. She clenched her jaw and looked around, sweaty ponytail flapping against her shoulder. “Toreth and Ithel, get your warriors to the Northern Gate! Morlais, to the South! The rest, with me!”

Geralt rushed to Toruviel’s side. “Where are you going? Toruviel, I need to get her out of here.”

“There’s a cave nearby. From there, a secret passage leads out of the ruins. We’ll have to leave the horses but it’s our only chance, there are too many soldiers for us.”

She led the group to a cave entrance hidden behind overgrowth. Slowly, they trickled into the dark, only broken by the feeble light of their torches. They trudged through a surprisingly wide gallery that seemed older than the ruined palace itself. No elf could carve rock like this—only dwarven hands. So the elven marvel of Shaerrawedd was built on land stolen from dwarves, and now humans made their claim.

Agitation ran through the line as the screams behind them grew nearer. Ciri grabbed Geralt’s hand.

“Don’t look back,” Geralt said. “We’re almost out.”

Finally, the stuffy air of the cave gave way to a cold night wind. A steep path climbed out of the ravine. On top of it, spears bristled, gleaming in the red light of the burning forest. Geralt swore. A wall of black shields emerged from the ridge, long spears jutting out over them. Then another line. And another.

The Scoia’tael froze. Toruviel looked desperately at Geralt. The rows of Kaedwenian soldiers advanced. “Don’t harm the human girl,” one of them said. “Kill the rest.”

Geralt unsheathed his steel sword and stared at the rebels around him.

“Our swords will never reach past those spears if they remain together,” Toruviel said.

“That much is clear,” Geralt said. “But if I cleave through them, we have a chance.” He got closer to Toruviel and whispered, “If I don’t make it, get the girl to the Temple of Melitele. Promise me.”

She nodded, eyeing anxiously the rows of soldiers closing in.

Geralt looked at Ciri and fought the knot in his throat. “Stay here. Be ready. We run out of here as soon as we have the chance.”

“Don’t leave me, Geralt.”

“I won’t.”

He faced the Kaedwenian soldiers and his hand twitched. _Liar._ He usually kept his cool before a confrontation, but this time he could not clear his mind. _You’ll meet your end here, another corpse she’ll have to leave behind._ He shook his head. He would have to trust his muscle memory. “Follow me!”

_Aard._ The center of the line faltered, barely keeping their shields and spears up. His opportunity. He rushed through the opening, cutting left and right. _Aard._ The line broke apart, soldiers stumbling towards the Scoia’tael’s swords. Chaos. His blade tore through flesh and arteries. The world turned red. He danced to the rhythm of bones crushing.

It was then he noticed two Kaedwenian riders breaking through the turmoil, rushing towards the cave. _No._ He ran. _Aard._ One of the riders fell, but the other was already on foot, approaching Ciri. Geralt slashed, and a right arm still holding a sword fell to the ground. The Kaedwenian soldier toppled over.

Ciri wielded her witcher sword, eyes wide open at Geralt, blood splattered across her face. Geralt wanted to say something, but a whistle crossed the air behind him. He tried to turn a moment too late. Pain tore through his thigh. His knees gave out. A bolt was stuck on the back of his thigh. Fighting the stinging pain, he turned his head. The first rider was loading another bolt into his crossbow.

_ This is it. _

“Ciri,” he said with effort.

Ciri run past him towards the rider.

_ No. _

He wanted to shout, scream, cry at the girl running towards her doom, but she reached the man before he could. Her sword was a blur. The soldier dropped the crossbow, hands desperately clutching his bloody neck. Dara reached Ciri’s side.

_ Get her out of here. _

The endless stream of soldiers pushed the Scoia’tael back towards the cave. They were almost cornered, the battle was lost. More riders emerged from the fight, bolting towards Ciri and Dara. They stood in front of Geralt, swords ready. “Run,” he tried to say, but he stumbled to the ground. His clothes got soaked in the dark puddle beneath him. Hooves thundered towards them. _I’m so sorry, Ciri. I’ve failed you, Yen._

A deafening crack. Lightning. Horses and riders falling in every direction. On top of the path leading out of the ravine, Geralt saw her, raven hair flapping wildly in the wind, striking against the all-consuming fire. Then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Finally, we have our family in the same place at the same time. There's no trick, I promise.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm specially grateful to all of you leaving comments, I wouldn't have made it this far without your support.


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